VITTORIA DI COLONNA.
"Vittoria è 'l nome; e ben conviensi a nata
Fra le vittorie, ed a chi, o vada o stanzi,
Di trofei sempre e di trionfi ornata,
La Vittoria abbia seco, o dietro o innanzi.
Questa e un' altra Artemisia, che lodata.
Fu di pietà verso il suo Mausolo; anzi
Tanto maggior, quanto è più assai bel opra
Che por _sotterra_ un nom, trarlo _di sopra_."
Ariosto. _Orlando_, xxxvii., 18.
Costanza, the young and beautiful Duchess of Francavilla, had, at the
beginning of the century, the fortress of the little island of Ischia
committed to her charge. This young widow had sense, goodness, courage,
rare prudence, energy, and fidelity; or Ischia, the key of the kingdom,
and more than once a royal asylum, would never have been entrusted to
her keeping.
She was not only guardian of the castle and island, but of her infant
brother, Ferdinand, Marquis of Pescara. In his fifth year, the little
fellow was betrothed to the baby Vittoria Colonna, of the same age, who
was thenceforth consigned to the Duchess Costanza, to be educated with
her future husband; and the little _promessi sposi_ might be seen
straying about together, hand in hand, sharing their sweetmeats and
play-things, and now and then having a little fight.
"Let dogs delight," however, was so strenuously inculcated by the
Duchess, that reciprocal forbearance soon cemented their affections. The
Marquis was taught that he must reserve kicks and blows for his future
enemies, and Vittoria that she must learn to bind up wounds rather than
inflict them. And so they chased butterflies, gathered flowers, and
hunted for strawberries together, themselves the prettiest blossoms
that ever floated on summer air.
"Ah, lovely sight! behold them,--creatures twain,
Hand in hand wandering thro' some verdant alley,
Or sunny lawn of their serene domain,
Their wind-caught laughter echoing musically;
Or skimming, in pursuit of bird-cast shadows,
With feet immaculate the enamelled meadows."
"Tiptoe now stand they by some towering lily,
And fain would peer into its snowy cave;
Now, the boy bending o'er some current chilly,
She feebler backward draws him from the wave,
But he persists, and gains for her at last
Some bright flowers, from the dull weeds hurrying past."[12]
[12] Aubrey de Vere. "A Tale of the Olden Time."
And thus the little betrothed led charmed lives, sporting and caressing,
in the intervals of learning hymns and legends and listening to the
Duchess's fairy tales.
She also taught them a good deal of history by word of mouth, so that
they came to be quite as conversant with Romulus and Remus, Curtius and
Horatius Cocles, as with giants and dwarfs. Then came the conning of
the criss-cross row, duly followed by the Latin accidence, each
rivalling and yet helping the other. Learned tutors and gifted artists
gave the Duchess their aid; and thus the tranquil days glided on till
they were nineteen; the bloodshed and anarchy which distracted unhappy
Italy never troubling this charmed islet.
Bishop Berkeley said of Ischia, in a letter to Pope: "'Tis an epitome of
the whole earth! containing within the compass of eighteen miles a
wonderful variety of hills, vales, rugged rocks, fruitful plains, and
barren mountains, all thrown together in most romantic confusion. The
air is, in the hottest season, constantly refreshed by cool breezes from
the sea; the vales produce excellent wheat and Indian corn, but are
mostly covered with vineyards, interspersed with fruit trees. Besides
the common kinds, as cherries, apricots, peaches, &c., they produce
oranges, limes, almonds, pomegranates, figs, water-melons, and many
other fruits unknown in our climate, which lie everywhere open to the
passenger. The hills are the greater part covered to the top with vines;
some with chesnut groves, and others with thickets of myrtle and
lentiscus."
During this interval, Pescara had grown up into a strikingly handsome
and interesting youth. His hair, says Giovio, was auburn, his nose
aquiline, his eyes large and expressive; alternately flashing with
spirit and melting with softness. Vittoria worshipped him; and this was
so artlessly manifest that Pescara grew a little arrogant upon it. She
was a lovely blonde, with regular features, blue eyes, and hair of that
tint which Petrarch described as "chioma aurata," and which Galeazzo da
Tarsia, one of her poet-lovers, called "trecce d'oro." The Spanish
painter, Francesco d'Olanda, spoke of her rare beauty; and Michael
Angelo felt its powerful though innocent spell when, after their tender
leave-taking on her death-bed, he regretted that he had not kissed her
cheek instead of her hand.
Vittoria's father, in spite of his grand, historic name, was but a
condottiere or captain of free lances, whose business and pleasure
consisted in bloodshed and rapine. He dwelt perched up in an old
ancestral castle overlooking a gloomy little walled town on a steep
hill-side, from whence he and his men would now and then sweep down to
devastate the property of his neighbours, much in the style of our own
border chiefs. It was his son Ascanio, Vittoria's brother, who made war
on Giulia, and seized her castles.
Thus, Vittoria, the daughter and sister of fighting men, was ready to
admire and sympathize in the martial ardour of Pescara, which would have
had something respectable in it, had any one fought in those days for
any grand principle.
At nineteen, the betrothed were married. Of course there was much
rejoicing, much feasting; chroniclers record the homages Vittoria
received from rich relations, in the shape of diamond crosses, diamond
rings, "twelve golden bracelets," &c., and recount the crimson velvet
gowns fringed with gold, the flesh-coloured silk petticoats trimmed with
black velvet, the purple brocaded mantles and so forth, composing her
wardrobe, which doubtless exemplified the height of the fashion of the
time.
After the great stir was a great calm: two years ensued of perfect
married happiness. Then the young Marquis was summoned to the field; nor
did Vittoria seek to withhold him from the call to arms. The King of
Spain was also King of Naples, so of course Pescara fought on the
Spanish side: but the French were victorious at Ravenna, where he was
taken prisoner, after receiving some wounds in the face, which, the
Duchess of Milan told him, only made him the better-looking.
He charmed his captivity by addressing to his wife a Dialogue on Love,
full of the studied conceits of the time. Vittoria sent him a poetical
epistle, full of tenderness and classicality. Playing on her own name,
she said:--"Se Vittoria volevi, io t'era appresso. Ma tu, lasciando me,
lasciasti lei."
"If victory was what you wanted, _I_ was by your side. But, leaving
_me_, you lost _her_."
One day, when she was with tearful eyes, inditing a sonnet to him, lo,
Pescara himself suddenly stood before her! He had been released on
paying a heavy ransom: she looked on him as "un gran capitano."
Before their happiness could pall, he was off again, to win new laurels.
He had, indeed, bravery worthy of some good cause; but he was a stern,
inflexible commander: and in doing justice, he sometimes lost sight of
mercy.
Pescara supplied his wife with an occupation during his absence, by
sending her a young boy to educate; a little cousin of his own, the
Marquis del Vasto; beautiful as a Cupid, but the naughtiest little Turk!
In a little while, Vittoria could guide him with a rein of silk. It is
excellent woman's work to train boys. It is well to talk to them and
listen to them a good deal; tell them your own plans and air-castles;
hear all about theirs; help them in little matters and get them to help
you in yours; ask their opinion sometimes, and suggest rather than
intrude your own. Long walks together inevitably lead to long talks:
little things occur in which the boy may aid the woman as if he were a
man; though it be but to help her across a brook or over a stile.
Del Vasto soon adored Vittoria, and as she was a good classic, he
feared her detection of false quantities, and yet would often come to
her for help, sure of obtaining it. He burned to be a hero like Pescara:
they both thought him quite up to Achilles. But Vittoria was to learn
her idol was made of clay.
They met once more--they spent three days together, without knowing they
were not to see each other again. He hurried back to take the lead in a
brilliant but cruel campaign. It included the battle of Pavia. Robertson
calls Pescara the ablest and most enterprising of the Imperial generals;
and certainly he divided with Lannoy the merit of this victory, which
caused the captivity of two kings, and changed the fate of Europe.
Pescara thought himself injured, in having Francis the First taken out
of his hands; and his known pique on the subject made a certain
political party, with the Pope for its real, and a man named Morone for
its ostensible head, think they might perhaps detach him from the
Spanish interest--in other words, make a traitor of him.
In an evil hour, Pescara listened. Where was the pure, lofty influence
of his wife at that moment? She was far away, believing in his unstained
honour. A fatal letter was written by him, yielding to the tempter's
snares, and entrusted to a messenger named Gismondo Santi.
This man, lodging at a low hostelry on his journey, was murdered by the
landlord, and buried under his staircase. As no tidings, consequently,
were heard of the unfortunate emissary, Pescara concluded he had turned
traitor (like his master) and carried his despatches to the Emperor.
Fancy his feelings.
Oh, for Vittoria! Oh that she had been with him at first!--oh! that she
were with him now! As he clasped his strong hands over his burning eyes,
and strove to think, he seemed to see her, sitting at her
writing-table, pensively gazing at his miniature, and then at the
crucifix above it, with a prayer for him on her lips--a prayer that he
might be surrounded by an atmosphere of sanctity and safety.
After crowning such a brilliant campaign by winning the battle of Pavia,
should he end by dying a disgraced man?--a convicted traitor, like De
Bourbon, with, perhaps, the felon death that De Bourbon had escaped? And
all for what? What dust and ashes the Evil One gives us to drink!
Just then, a courier, hot with haste, brought him a letter--it was from
Vittoria. Too agitated to disentangle gently the tress of her fair hair
knotted round it, he cut it with his dagger, and devoured rather than
read it.
Some bird of the air had carried the matter!--she had heard of the plot!
No Lady Macbeth was Vittoria, to urge her husband on to guilt--she was
his guardian angel, and wrote, with infinite trouble and anxiety, to
implore him to think of his hitherto unstained character, and to weigh
well what he was about, declaring to him that she had no desire to be
the wife of a king, but only of a loyal and upright man.
This letter decided Pescara as to his course. He wrote a full confession
to the Emperor, who certainly owed him small thanks for it, seeing he
believed him to know all already; and the confederates he compromised
owed him still less. Pescara was too deep in the mire now, to come out
unstained. He returned to his allegiance to the Emperor, but he betrayed
his friends, his tempters, accomplices, or whatever name we may give
them. The Pope, of course, was above danger; but Morone fell into a
regular trap laid for him.
Vittoria, far away in her little island, would only hear as much as
Pescara chose to tell her, and in his own way. She would suppose his
character unscathed, his possession of imperial favour undiminished,
since he was shortly afterwards made generalissimo of the forces.
Suddenly his health broke down. No one could say why, unless the slight
wounds he had received at Pavia had injured him more than was supposed.
A troubled mind, probably, was at the root of his mortal sickness.
And so, in the prime of life, and loaded with honours, he found all
earthly things receding from his grasp, and death hovering in view. In
great anguish he sent for Vittoria, begging her to come quickly. She
started instantly with all speed, and had travelled as far northwards as
Viterbo, when she was met by the news of his death.
Thus closed their life's romance. And if she had breathed her last on
his grave, she would only be known to us, if known at all, as a
constant, affectionate woman. Instead of which, she lived to immortalise
his memory in noble verse, to exemplify by her life a rare purity,
constancy, intelligence, and devotion, and then to dedicate her pen to
the loftiest themes that an evangelical faith could consecrate. No mere
idyls or love-verses: her poems are full of deep thought and profound
piety.
This was the Vittoria, perhaps the most distinguished lady in Italy,
whom Giulia Gonzaga, her cousin by marriage, found at Naples, listening
to the preaching of Bernardino Ochino.
Del Vasto, her boy pupil, was now arrived at man's estate, and her
dearest friend. He was married to Maria d'Aragona, the greatest beauty
of the day. Like Pescara, he was destined to die early.