THE POISONED FRUITS--1494
'And the Serpent said unto the woman, Ye shall not surely die. For
God doth know that in the day ye eat thereof, then your eyes shall
be opened, and ye shall be as gods, knowing good and evil.--GEN.
iii. 4 and 5.
'Faciendo un bucho con un succhiello dentro un albusciello, a
chacciandovi arsenicho e risalgallo e sollimato stemperati con
acqua arzente, a forza di fare e sua frutti velenosi.'--LEONARDO DA
VINCI.
(Having pierced the heart of a young tree, inject arsenic, a
reagent and corrosive sublimate, diluted with alcohol, so as to
envenom even the fruit.)
I
Beatrice, the duchess, used every Friday to bathe her hair, and then
tincture it with gold, after which she dried it in the sunshine. For her
convenience she had caused balustraded '_altane_,' or platforms, to be
erected on the roof of the splendid ducal villa of the Sforzesca, which
stood on the right bank of the Ticino, near the fortress of Vigevano,
among the fat pastures and the ever green water-side meadows of the
province of Lomellina. Here, then, she sat, patiently supporting the
blazing heat at an hour when even husbandmen and their oxen were wont to
creep into the shadow. She wore a _schiavinetta_--a loose white silk
wrapper without sleeves. On her head was a kind of straw sunshade, or
hat, from the opening in the top of which flowed out the broad masses of
her gilded and rippling hair. An olive-skinned Circassian slave was
moistening the hair with a sponge, fixed on the point of a spindle; and
a Tartar, slit-eyed and crooked, was combing it with an ivory comb.
The dye was made in May of the roots of walnut trees, saffron, ox-gall,
swallows' lime, ambergris, bears' claws, and the fat of lizards. Close
beside the duchess, and watched by herself, an infusion of musk roses
and precious spices was simmering in a long-necked retort, upon a tripod
over an invisible flame.
Both the waiting-maids were bathed in perspiration; even the duchess's
lapdog was ill at ease on this burning _altana_, and, panting and
lolling out his tongue, gazed reproachfully at his mistress, nor
responded as usual to the provocation of the monkey. The latter was
luxuriating in the heat, however, like the negro page, who held the
gemmed and jewelled mother-o'-pearl mirror.
Though the Lady Beatrice constantly endeavoured to compose countenance
and deportment to the severity becoming her rank, it was hard to believe
that she was nineteen, had been married three years, and had borne two
children. In the girlish roundness of her dark cheek, in the childish
dimple, the slender throat, the chin too plump; in the full lips tightly
compressed as if always tempted to pout; in the slight shoulders and
flat bosom; in the abrupt boyish movements, she appeared still a
schoolgirl, spoiled, wilful, restless and even selfish. Yet prudence and
intelligence shone from the steady, dark eyes; and the Venetian
ambassador, Marino Sanuto, most astute of statesmen, had written in his
private letters to his government that this girl was hard as flint, and
gave him far more trouble than did her husband, Il Moro; who indeed
showed his wisdom by obeying her about everything.
The dog barked angrily, and up the winding stair which led to the
_altana_ came laboriously an old woman habited like a widow. In one hand
she held a crutch, in the other a rosary; the wrinkles in her face might
have given her a reverend aspect, had not the withered mouth smiled
hypocritically, and the eyes sparkled with audacious cunning.
'Ugh, ugh! How detestable is old age! I could hardly drag myself hither.
May the Lord preserve youth and health to your Excellency,' said the old
woman, kissing the hem of the _schiavinetta_.
'Well, Monna Sidonia, is it ready?'
The crone drew from her pouch a carefully wrapped, closely-stoppered
phial, containing a turbid, whitish liquid,--the milk of a red goat and
of an ass, distilled with wild anise, asparagus, and white lilies.
'In good sooth, her Excellency should keep it two little days more in
good horse litter. Yet it can be used at once if needful; only first
strain it through a filter. Wet with it crumbs of stale bread, and then
be pleased to rub your noble countenance for such a period as would take
the reciting of three _credos_. In five weeks' time all swarthiness will
be removed, and pimples beside.'
'Hearken, old woman,' said Beatrice; 'in this lotion there are again,
mayhap, some of the abominable things used in black magic,--snakes' fat,
perchance, or plovers' blood; or powdered lizards, fried in a
frying-pan; such as there were in that unguent you gave me for withering
the hair in my cheek-moles. If it be so, tell me at once.'
'Your Excellency should not lend her ear to the calumnies of the
malignant. I work honestly, as my conscience dictates; but no one can do
without dirt sometimes. The magnificent Madonna Angelica, for example,
all last year washed her head with dogs' urine, so as to preserve her
hair, which was falling out; and thanked God and me it cured her.' Then,
bending down to the duchess's ear, she told the latest gossip:--how the
young wife of the Master of the Guild of the Salters, the lovely Madonna
Filiberta was deceiving her husband with a Spanish cavalier, and
diverting herself hugely.
'And doubtless,' said Beatrice, jestingly threatening with her finger,
''twas you who brought the poor thing to it, you old bawd!'
'Does your Excellency call her _poor_? Nay, she sings me her thanks
every hour. Now she knows the difference between the kiss of a spouse
and the kiss of a lover.'
'But the sin? Doth not her conscience bite her?'
'Her conscience? Madam, I hold the sin of love the work of nature. And a
few drops of holy water can wash the sin away. Madonna Filiberta is but
giving her spouse a Roland for his Oliver.'
'Is your meaning that likewise the husband----'
'Say it for certain, I do not--but sure it is that all married men harp
on one string. There is none of them but would sooner have a single hand
than a single wife.'
The duchess laughed. 'Ah, Monna Sidonia, Monna Sidonia, there's no
tripping you! But where do you learn all these things?'
'Believe the word of an old woman; what I tell you is gospel truth. And
in matters of conscience I know the difference between a beam and a
mote. All fruit gets ripe in its season. If she have not her fill of
love when she be young, a woman will fall into such longing when she is
old, that she will go straight into the claws of the devil.'
'You preach like a doctor of theology.'
'Nay, I am unlearned; but I speak from my heart, and I tell your
Excellency that youth comes but once in life; for what the devil--Lord
forgive me!--is the use of us women when we are old? Perhaps to throw
charcoal on the brazier, and to count the pots and the pans in the
kitchen. Not for nothing says the proverb.
"La giovane mangia, la vecchia s'ingozza."[2]
[2] _Ingozzare_, to swallow; also, to bear an affront meekly.
Beauty without love is like matins without a paternoster.'
'What! say that over again!' laughed the duchess.
The old woman, thinking she had now trifled enough, again bent to the
lady's ear and whispered. Beatrice ceased to laugh, her face darkened.
She dismissed her attendants, excepting the little blackamoor who had no
Italian. Around them was only the still and glowing air, which seemed to
have paled under the fury of the heat.
'Folly!' answered the duchess; 'such chattering is of no moment.'
'Signora, I saw with my eyes, I heard with my ears. Others will tell you
the like.'
'Were there many persons?'
'Ten thousand. The piazza before the Castle of Pavia was thronged.'
'What heard you?'
'When Madonna Isabella came forth bearing the little Francesco there was
a beating of hands, a waving of caps, and a many who shed tears. "_Viva_
Isabella of Aragon," they cried, "_Viva_ Gian Galeazzo and his heir, our
true and legitimate lord! Death to the usurpers of his throne!"'
Beatrice frowned. 'Those were the very words?'
'Ay; but there was worse.'
'Speak--fear nothing.'
'They cried--my tongue, _Signora mia_, refuses--but they cried "Death to
the Robbers!"'
Beatrice shivered; mastering herself, however, she asked calmly, 'Was
there more?'
'Of a truth, I know not how to tell it to your Excellency.'
'Haste thee, I would know all.'
'Believe me, madam, they said that the most noble duke, Ludovico il
Moro, the guardian and the benefactor of Gian Galeazzo, holds his nephew
in the fortress of Pavia, and surrounds him with assassins and spies.
Then they demanded that the duke himself should come out to them, but
Madonna Isabella answered that he lay sick.'
And again Monna Sidonia whispered in the duchess's ear.
'But you are distraught, you old hag,' cried the lady. 'Beware, lest I
have you thrown from this roof, so that not even a crow can get your
bones together.'
The threat did not frighten Monna Sidonia. Beatrice also soon calmed.
'I don't believe a word of it,' she said, observing the crone furtively.
'As you please, Excellency,' answered the other, shrugging lean
shoulders, 'but nothing can prevent my words from being true. See you,'
she continued insinuatingly, 'you make a small figure of wax, and you
put a swallow's heart in at the right side, at the left its liver, then
you pierce it with a needle, uttering charms the while; and he will die
of a slow death, nor is there doctor who can save him.'
'Silence!' commanded the duchess.
The hag again devoutly kissed the hem of the _schiavinetta_. 'Your Grace
is my sun. I love you overmuch, 'tis my worst fault.' She paused, then
added, 'It can be done also without witchcraft.'
The duchess was silent, but she looked at the woman curiously.
'As I came by the palace garden,' resumed Monna Sidonia, dryly, 'I saw
the gardener collecting fair ripe peaches in a basket, a present
doubtless for Messer Gian Galeazzo.' Another pause, and she continued,
'And likewise in the garden of Messer Leonardo da Vinci, the Florentine,
there are fair ripe peaches, but empoisoned.'
'Empoisoned?'
'Ay, Monna Cassandra, my niece, saw----' And again she whispered.
The duchess made no answer. By this time her hair was dry, and she rose,
threw off the _schiavinetta_, and descended to the apartment known as
the wardrobe. Here were three huge presses; the first, large as that in
some great sacristy, contained the eighty-four dresses which she had
found time to acquire in the three years of her married life; some so
stiff with gold and jewels that they could stand on the floor by
themselves, others diaphanous, imponderous as the web of a spider. In
the second press were riding-dresses, and all furniture for hawking. In
the third, essences, waters, washes, unguents, powders for the teeth of
white coral and seed-pearls, innumerable vases, retorts, rectified
alembics, crucibles, in short, a complete laboratory of female alchemy;
precious cedar-wood chests, also, covered with paintings and embroidery.
From one of these the waiting-woman drew forth a chemise of the purest
whiteness. The room filled with a scent of lavender, oriental iris, and
dried Damascus roses.
While she dressed, Beatrice conversed about the trimming of a new gown
just received by courier from her sister, Isabella d'Este, the
Marchioness of Mantua. The sisters vied with each other in elegance, and
Beatrice paid a court spy to keep her informed of all the novelties in
the Mantuan wardrobe.
The duchess attired herself in her favourite robe, which, striped with
gold satin and green velvet, made her seem taller than she was. The
open-work sleeves were tied with bands of grey silk, slashed in the
French mode, and showing the white puffings of the undergarment. Her
hair was plaited and confined in a gold net and fine gold cord, which
was clasped by a scorpion of rubies.
II
She was in the habit of spending so long a time at the morning toilette
that the duke said he could as quickly have fitted a merchant ship for
the Indies. On this occasion, however, hearing a distant sound of horns
and the baying of hounds, she remembered that she had ordered a hunt,
and consequently hurried. When dressed she paid a passing visit to the
chamber of her dwarfs, which, in imitation of the royal play-room of
Isabella d'Este, she nicknamed 'the Apartment of the Giants.' Here
everything was arranged for a population of pygmies: chairs, beds,
furniture, ladders, even a chapel with a toy altar at which daily
service was read by a learned dwarf named Janachi in archiepiscopal
robes and mitre. Among the 'giants' was always much noise: laughter and
weeping, the cries of various and eerie voices from hunchbacks, apes,
parrots, idiots, Tartars, buffoons, and other absurd creatures, with
whom the youthful duchess sometimes passed whole days playing. To-day
she looked in merely to inquire after the health of a little negro named
Nannino, lately sent from Venice. His skin had been so black, that in
the words of his former mistress, 'Nothing more exquisite could be
desired,' but now that he had fallen ill it had become apparent that his
hue was not entirely natural, for a coating, black and shining like
lacquer, was peeling off and causing great chagrin to Beatrice. However,
she loved him in spite of his growing fairness, and hearing with
distress that he was likely to die, she gave orders to have him
christened as quickly as possible.
Descending the staircase, she met Morgantina, her favourite female fool,
who was young, pretty, and so whimsical that she 'could rouse even the
dead to laughter.' She stole and hid booty like a magpie, but if spoken
to kindly would confess her crimes, and was simple and innocent as a
child. Sometimes, however, she fell into fits of melancholy, wailing for
her lost son (who had never existed). This morning she was sitting on
the stair hugging her knees and sobbing distractedly. Beatrice patted
her on the head.
'Cease, little one, cease,' she said, 'be good.'
The fool, raising her childish blue eyes streaming with tears, made
reply, 'Oh! oh! oh! they have taken my baby away! And, O Lord, why? What
harm had he done?'
Without another word the duchess went down into the courtyard where the
huntsmen were awaiting her.
III
Surrounded by outriders, falconers, beaters, equerries, pages, and
court-ladies, Beatrice sat her slender dark bay Arab--a superb creature
from Gonzaga's stables--like an expert horseman. 'A true queen of
Amazons,' thought her husband proudly, as he came out of the pleached
alley before the palace to watch his consort's start.
Behind the duchess rode a falconer in a sumptuous livery, embroidered
with gold. A snow-white Cyprus falcon, a gift from the Sultan, its
golden hood glittering with emeralds, and little bells attached to its
claws, sat on his left hand.
Beatrice was in lively humour; she looked at her husband with a smile,
but when he said--
'Be wary! the horse is mettlesome,' she signed to her companions and
darted off at a gallop, first along the road, then over the open fields,
across ditches, hillocks, and trenches. Her retinue fell behind; but
Beatrice was attended by a huge wolf-hound, and by her side, on a black
Castilian mare, the gayest and boldest of her maidens, rode Madonna
Lucrezia Crivelli. The duke was by no means indifferent to this lady,
and as he watched her and Beatrice side by side in this mad gallop, it
would have perplexed him to say which of the two he admired the more.
However, he certainly experienced an invincible anxiety for his young
wife, and when she leaped a deep chasm, he closed his eyes and caught
his breath. Often he had reproved her for these follies, but had not the
heart to forbid them; deficient himself in physical courage, he was
proud of the daring of his lady.
The party descended into the ravine and disappeared among the osier
thickets of the low banks of the Ticino, the breeding place of ducks,
woodcock, and herons.
Then the duke returned to his _studiolo_, where Messer Bartolomeo Calco,
his chief secretary, who had charge of the embassies from the foreign
courts, was awaiting commands.
IV
Sitting in his high-backed armchair, Ludovico Sforza softly stroked his
smooth-shaved chin with a white and well-kept hand. His handsome face
wore that expression of perfect candour which is acquired by past
masters in political trickery; his high-bridged aquiline nose, and
subtly writhen lips recalled his father Francesco, the great
_Condottiere_; though if Francesco were, as the poets said, at once
lion and fox, Ludovico was merely fox. He was attired in pale blue silk,
puffed and embroidered; his smooth hair covered ears and brow like a
wig, and a gold chain dangled on his breast; in word and gesture he was
uniformly courteous and urbane.
'Have you certain intelligence, Messer Bartolomeo, of the departure of
the French army from Lyons?'
'None, your Excellency. Every evening they say "to-morrow," every
morning they say "to-night." The king wastes himself in unwarlike
amusements.'
'Who is his first favourite?'
'Many names are mentioned, the taste of his Majesty is variable.'
'Write to Count Belgioioso that I send him thirty--no--forty or fifty
thousand ducats to spend in new donatives, let him spare nothing. We
must draw this king out of Lyons by golden chains. And, Bartolomeo--but
repeat this not--it were well to send his Majesty the portraits of some
of our fairest ladies. By the way, is the letter ready?'
'It is, Signore.'
'Show it to me.'
Il Moro rubbed his white hands for pleasure. Every time he contemplated
his huge web of policy, he felt an agreeable stirring at heart; he loved
the dangerous game. Nor did he blame himself for having summoned the
foreigners, the northern barbarians, into Italy; his enemies had forced
him to this extreme measure, chiefly the consort of Gian Galeazzo,
Isabella of Aragon, who openly accused him of having usurped the throne
of his nephew. Yet it had not been till her father, Alfonso of Naples,
had intervened, threatening war and dethronement, that Ludovico had
appealed to Charles VIII. King of France.
'Inscrutable are thy ways, O Lord!' thought the duke piously, while his
secretary searched for the letter in a pile of papers; 'the salvation of
my kingdom, of Italy, perhaps of all Europe, is in the hands of this
abortion of nature, this libertine, this witless boy, whom they name the
Most Christian King of France; before whom we, the heirs of the glory of
the Sforzas, must crouch, and creep, and play the pander. But such are
politics; he who hunts with wolves must howl with them.'
He read over the letter, which seemed to him sufficiently well
expressed.
'May the Lord bless thy crusading army, O most Christian,' so it ran;
'the gates of Ausonia stand open to thee. Hesitate not to enter in
triumph, a new Hannibal! The peoples of Italy yearn to bow beneath thy
gentle yoke, O anointed of the Most High....'
So far the duke had read when a humpbacked, bald, old man looked in at
the door. Ludovico smiled, but motioned to him to wait. The head
vanished, and the door closed again softly; but the secretary saw he had
lost his master's attention. Messer Bartolomeo therefore concluded the
letter and went out. The duke cautiously stepped to the door on the tips
of his toes, and called softly--
'Bernardo! Hist! Bernardo!'
'Here, my lord.' And the court poet, Bernardo Bellincioni, advanced with
an air of mystery and servility, and he would have fallen on his knees
to kiss the duke's hand: the latter, however, restrained him.
'Well? Well?'
'All is right, my lord.'
'Is she brought to bed?'
'Last night saw her released from her burden.'
'Felicitously? Or shall I send my physician?'
'Nay, the mother is doing perfectly.'
'Glory be to God! And the child?'
'Perfect.'
'Male or female?'
'A man-child. And with a voice--! Fair hair as his mother's; but the
eyes black, burning and quick like those of your Grace. The princely
blood shows itself. A little Hercules! Madonna Cecilia is beside herself
with joy; and bade me inquire the name that will please your
Excellency.'
'I have considered that. We will call him Caesar. What think you of
that?'
''Tis a fine name; well mouthing, and ancient. Cesare Sforza! A name
meant for a hero.'
'Well now--about the husband?'
'The illustrious Count Bergamini is good and courteous as ever.'
'Admirable man!' cried the duke.
'Your Excellency will permit me to pronounce him a man of rare virtue.
Such men are to seek nowadays. If the gout permit, he would desire to
sup with your Worship, to testify to his respect.'
The Countess Cecilia of whom they spoke had long been Ludovico's
mistress. But Beatrice, his bride, daughter of Ercole d'Este, Duke of
Ferrara, having discovered the amour, became furiously jealous; and by
threats of return to her paternal home, she induced her lord not only to
swear better observance of his conjugal fidelity, but also to bestow
Cecilia in wedlock. The husband selected by Ludovico was the ancient and
complaisant Count Bergamini.
Bellincioni, taking a small paper from his pocket, presented it to the
duke. It was a sonnet in honour of the newly born:--
'Thou weepest, Phoebus! Why this silver rain?
Because this day upon the amazèd skies,
Lo! I have seen a second sun arise,
Before whose splendours all my glories wane.'
'This is a tale for laughter!' 'Nay, for pain,
Truth suffers no derision from the wise.'
'Then tell me more, and still my loud surprise,
That queries whence this newer king shall reign.'
'The offspring of a Moor, he makes his nest
In sweet Cecilia's arms--I saw his light
Shine through the brooding feathers of her love;
Now, must I hide me in the cloudy west,
Eclipsed by one more radiant and more bright,
Who shall greater God than Phoebus prove.'
The duke bestowed a silver piece upon the poet.
'Bernardo, let it not slip your memory that Saturday is the birthday of
the duchess.'
Bellincioni hastily fumbled in the folds of his courtly but threadbare
raiment, and from some recess therein drew forth a whole sheaf of
tumbled papers; and among grandiloquent odes on the death of Madonna
Angelina's falcon, and the disorder of Signor Paravicino's dappled
Hungarian mare, found the verses required.
'Here be three for my lord to choose from,' he said. 'I vow by the
sacred footprints of Pegasus, you will be content.'
In those times sovereigns used their court poets as musical instruments,
to serenade not their mistresses only, but also their wives; fashion
demanded that between husband and wife at least platonic love should be
assumed.
The duke ran through the verses curiously; though he could not himself
string two lines together. In the first sonnet he found two lines to his
taste, where the husband turns to his wife with these words:--
'Where thy light spittle falls, flowers gem the earth
As dews of spring bring violets to birth.'
In the second the poet, comparing Madonna Beatrice with the goddess
Diana, asserted that boars and stags felt happiness in falling by the
hand of so fair a huntress. The third poem pleased Il Moro better than
all the rest. It was put into the mouth of Dante, who prays that God may
permit him to return to earth, since there he would once more find his
Beatrice in the person of the Duchess of Milan.
'O great Jove!' cried Alighieri, 'since thou hast again given her to the
earth that she may gladden it with the light of love, permit me also to
be with her, and to see him whose felicity she is, and whose life she
maketh most proud and glad.'
Il Moro graciously slapped the poet on his back, and promised him some
scarlet Florentine cloth at ten _soldi_ the _braccio_ for his winter
cloak. Bernardo, by no means satisfied, made many bowings and bendings,
and obtained at last the promise of some fox skin linings. He explained
that his furs had become by long wear as hairless and transparent as
vermicelli drying in the sun.
'Last winter,' he continued, 'I was so cold that I was ready to burn not
only my own staircase but the wooden shoes of St. Francis.'
The duke laughed, and promised him firewood, and Bellincioni instantly
improvised a laudatory quatrain.
'When to thy servants thou dost promise bread
Like God thou giv'st them heavenly manna,
For which great Phoebus and the choir of nine
Chant, noble Moor, to thee Hosanna.'
'You seem in the vein to-day, Bernardo. Hearken, I require yet another
poem.'
'Erotic?'
'Ay; and impassioned.'
'For the duchess?'
'By no means. But, beware you speak not of this!'
'My lord is pleased to insult me. Have I ever----'
'Not yet.'
'I am dumb as any fish,' and he blinked his eyes obsequiously and
mysteriously. 'Impassioned? That I understand. But of what kind?
Grateful? Imploring?'
'The last.'
The poet drew his brows together with an air of grave solicitude.
'Wedded?'
'A maid.'
'Good. But I shall need the name.'
'What on earth matters the name?'
'Can't do imploring without the name.'
'Madonna Lucrezia.--You have nothing ready?'
'Truly, my lord, I have; but something fresh would please better. Permit
me the seclusion of the next apartment; 'twill be the affair of a
moment. Already I feel the rhymes crawling in my head.'
Just then a page announced 'Messer Leonardo da Vinci,' and Bellincioni
disappeared through one door as Leonardo entered at the other.
V
After the opening salutations the duke and the artist fell to discussing
the new canal which was to connect the Sesia and the Ticino, and by a
branching network of trenches was to irrigate the meadows and pastures
of the Lomellina. Leonardo was superintendent of the excavations for the
canal, though he had not the title of Ducal Architect; neither was he
called the Court Painter, but only the _Sonatore di lire_, a title which
gave him precedence of the court poets like Bellincioni, and had been
accorded to him because on arrival in Milan he had presented Sforza with
a silver lyre, made by his own hand in the shape of a horse's head.
Having explained his design for the canal, Leonardo requested of the
duke that he might be put in possession of the further moneys necessary
for the prosecution of the work.
'How much?' asked Ludovico.
'Five hundred and six ducats for every league: in all, fifteen thousand
one hundred and eighty-seven.'
Ludovico frowned, remembering the fifty thousand he had just devoted to
the corruption of French nobles.
'Too much, too much, Messer Leonardo. You would ruin me. It is
impossible, unexampled. Why these boundless designs? I might consult
Bramante, you know, who is also an expert in construction. He works more
cheaply.'
Leonardo shrugged his shoulders.
'As you please, my lord. Entrust it to Bramante.'
'Nay, be not offended. I have no thought of slighting you.' And they
fell to bargaining.
'_Va bene, va bene!_' said the duke at last, deferring the conclusion of
the agreement; and he took up Leonardo's sketch-book and turned over the
unfinished drawings, chiefly architectural and mechanical: the artist,
somewhat impatient, had to furnish explanations and commentaries.
On one sheet there was a huge mausoleum, an artificial mountain crowned
with a colonnaded temple, its dome pierced like that of the Pantheon; on
the next, the exact calculations and the ground-plan for the edifice,
with details for the disposition of stairs, cells, corridors; the whole
being destined for the reception of five hundred sepulchral urns.
'What is this?' asked the duke; 'when and for whom have you designed
it?'
'For no one. 'Tis a fantasy.'
'Strange fantasy!' commented Ludovico shaking his head; ''tis a cemetery
for the gods or the Titans, like a building in a city of dreams.'
The next sketch showed the plan for a town with the streets in tiers,
one above the other, the upper for the rich, the lower for the poor, for
animals, and for refuse; a town to be built in conformity with natural
laws; for men without a conscience to be offended by glaring inequality.
'Not so bad!' observed the duke. 'You think it would be practicable?'
'Certainly,' said Leonardo brightening, 'I have long wished your
Excellency could be induced to try it, say in one of the suburbs. Five
thousand houses would suffice for thirty thousand people; they would be
decently divided, whereas now they herd together in dirt and distemper,
disseminating the seeds of disease. My plan, Signore, if literally
carried out, would provide the finest city in the world.'
The duke's laughter checked the enthusiast.
'You are finely crazed, Messer Leonardo. If I gave you the reins you
would turn the State topsy-turvy. You do not see that the most
submissive of slaves would resent your two-storeyed streets, would spit
upon your boasted cleanliness--your pipes and conduits--your finest city
in the world, _perdio_; and would flee back to their lousy old towns
again, where, as you say, they have a good modicum of filth and
distemper, but no insults to their self-respect. Well, and this?' he
added, pointing to another drawing.
This proved to be a design for a 'house of accommodation,' with secret
rooms, doors, and passages, so disposed that the visitors should not
meet each other.
'Ah! this is admirable!' cried the duke. 'I am weary of the robbings and
the murderings in these places. Here there would be order and security.
I will build at once on your plan.' He smiled and added, 'Bravo! Bravo!
I see nothing is beneath your ingenuity. _A proposito!_ I remember once
reading of the "Ear of Dionysius," a construction at Syracuse, which
permitted the tyrant in his palace to hear the speech of his prisoners
in the quarry. Think you it were possible to construct an Ear in my
palace?'
As he spoke the duke had stammered and blushed a little, but he
recovered himself immediately: before such a man as this artist no shame
was required. And Leonardo, without trenching on morals, eagerly
discussed the acoustics of the notion.
Then Bellincioni reappeared, announcing that his sonnet was ready and
passing beautiful; at which Leonardo took flight, having accepted the
duke's invitation to supper.
Ludovico requested the poet to read his work. The salamander, so the
sonnet ran, lives in the fire, but a lady, of virgin ice, has her
dwelling in the lover's fiery heart. The concluding quatrain seemed to
the duke surprisingly tender:--
'I sing, poor swan, of my consumèd years,
But singing brings my torture no relief;
Love with his laughter blows the flame of grief,
And mocking cries, "Extinguish it with tears."'
VI
While waiting till his consort should have returned from the chase, the
duke took a walk through his domain. He inspected the stables, built
like a Greek temple, with columns, porticos, and doubly-lighted windows;
the splendid dairy, where he tasted junkets and new-made cheese; then,
passing numberless hay-barns and sheds, came to the farm and the
cattle-yards. Here every detail rejoiced his heart; the sound of the
milk falling from the udders of his favourite Languedoc cow; the
newly-littered sow's motherly gruntings; the smell of honey from the
swarming hives. A smile of satisfaction illumined his dark face; truly
his home was like a filled goblet! He returned to the house and waited
under the gallery. It was towards evening, but not yet the hour of
sunset; from the water-meadows of the Ticino came the pungent freshness
of the grass. The duke cast his eyes slowly over his estate; pastures,
meadows, fields watered by a network of ditches, planted with long rows
of apple, and pear, and mulberry trees, trellised with the hanging
garlands of the vines. From Mortara to Abbiategrasso and further to the
very horizon, where in the creeping twilight the snows of Monte Rosa
gleamed with unearthly radiance, the boundless plain of Lombardy
flowered like the Paradise of God.
'I thank thee, Lord,' said the devout duke raising his eyes heavenward.
'I thank Thee for all. What more is there that I could desire of Thee?
Once a barren and leafless wilderness stretched on every side, but I and
Leonardo have made these canals, watered this land, and now every blade
of grass, every ear of corn blesses me as I bless thee, O Lord!'
Then was heard the tongue of the hounds, and the cry of the huntsmen,
and above the vines was seen a red lure, a formless object with
partridge wings, for bringing back the falcons. Ludovico and his _major
domo_ went the round of the tables to be sure that all was ready for the
evening feast. Presently the duchess made her entry, and then the guests
trooped in, among them Leonardo. A grace was recited, and they sat down
to table.
The first course consisted of artichokes sent by express from Genoa, fat
eels and carp from the Mantua ponds, gift from Isabella d'Este, and a
jelly of the breasts of good capons. The company ate with their fingers
and with knives, forks being reserved for state occasions. Certain tiny
golden ones with crystal prongs were, however, accorded to the ladies at
the fruit course. The munificent host assiduously pressed his guests to
eat; and as none ever blushed to be hungry, the food and the liquors
circulated freely and long.
Lucrezia had her seat beside the duchess, and the admiring eyes of the
duke rested on them both. It pleased him that his wife should honour the
maiden of his fancy, passing dainties from her own plate to the girl's,
and caressing her hand with that expansive and playful tenderness which
young women sometimes exhibit towards one another.
The conversation centred in the hunt, and Beatrice told how the sudden
burst of a stag from the thicket had almost thrown her from her horse.
Much laughter followed when the fool Gioda, the boaster, told of the
boar he had slain, singly, and with superhuman boldness and dexterity.
The animal was a tame pig, cast in his path designedly, and the carcase
was brought in and exhibited. The fool displayed excesses of rage at
these aspersions; but his fury and simplicity were equally assumed. He
knew a bad jest from a good one.
By degrees the laughter grew louder, and abundant potations reddened all
faces; the ladies surreptitiously loosened their stay-laces. The
cellarers brought round light Cyprus wine, both red and white, mulled at
the fire, and spiced with pistachios, cinnamon, and cloves. When the
duke called for wine, his command was passed out from one to the other
of the stewards in a solemn chant, as of a church function; a goblet was
brought from the buffet, and the chief Seneschal dipped a talisman--an
unicorn on a gold chain--into the liquor. If it were poisoned the horn
of this animal was to turn black and to shed drops of gore. Similar
talismans, of toad's-stone and serpent's-tongue, were put in the
salt-cellars. Count Bergamini, Cecilia's husband, had been given the
seat of honour, and was especially gay to-night, in spite of age and
gout. Pointing to the unicorn, he cried:--
'I fancy not the King of France has such a horn as your most illustrious
Excellency!'
'Hee! hee! hee!' crowed Janachi the hunchback, shaking his rattle and
clanging the bells of his motley cap, surmounted by ass's ears. 'Believe
him, nuncle, believe him!'
And the duke good-humouredly threatened the jester with his finger. Now
silver trumpets blared to announce the entry of the roasts--boar's head
and peacocks. Last came a pasty in the figure of a castle; from its
walls sounded a trumpet, and when the crust was cut a dwarf in parrot's
plumage sprang out and hopped round the table, till captured and
imprisoned in a gilded cage. Thence he screamed out a paternoster.
'Messer,' said the duchess to her lord, 'to what joyful event must we
attribute the unexpected good fare of this feast?'
Il Moro made no answer, but exchanged sly glances with Count Bergamini.
Cecilia's husband understood that the celebration was for the new-born
Cesare.
They sat over the boar's head for more than an hour, making no economy
of time, and remembering the proverb, 'At table none groweth old.' At
the close of the repast, Fra Talpone caused general hilarity. He was a
monk of great corpulence, quarrelled for by princes, being renowned for
voracity. He had greatly diverted His Holiness the Pope by devouring the
third part of a bishop's cassock, cut in pieces, and steeped in vinegar.
Now at a signal from the duke a huge platter of '_buzecchio_'--tripe
stewed with quinces--was placed before the friar. He sighed, crossed
himself, rolled up his sleeves, and consumed it with relish and
incredible rapidity.
'If thou had'st dined with Christ when He divided
The loaves and fishes miracle provided,
No morsel had remained a dog to fill,
Whilst thou unsatisfied had'st hungered still,'
sang Bellincioni on the spur of the moment. Roars of laughter broke from
the company. Only the face of the lonely and taciturn Leonardo retained
its expression of resigned _ennui_.
When the concluding dish of gilded oranges had been served on silver
plates, and handed with Malvoisie, then Antonio Camella da Pistoja, a
court poet, recited an ode in which the duke was addressed by the Arts
and Sciences and Elements in these terms:--
'We were slaves; thou camest, and we are free. _Evviva il Moro_.'
VII
After supper the guests adjourned to the garden called 'The Paradise';
laid out in geometrical figures with shorn edgings of box, alleys of
laurel and myrtle, shaded walks, labyrinths, loggias, and woven arbours.
Rugs and silken pillows were thrown on a lawn freshened by a glittering
fountain. The ladies and their cavaliers grouped themselves with
relaxing ceremony before the little court theatre, and an act of the
'_Miles Gloriosus_' of Plautus was performed. It was tedious, but the
audience, out of reverence for the ancients, feigned attention. After
the comedy the young people played ball, tennis, and blind-man's-buff,
running about, laughing and catching each other like children among the
luxuriant and fragrant roses and orange-trees, while the elders were at
dice, draughts, and chess. Others of the company gathered in a close
circle on the steps of the fountain, and told _novelli_ after the
fashion of the youths and ladies of the _Decameron_.
Then they danced to the tune of the favourite air of 'Lorenzo dei
Medici':--
'Quant e bella giovinezza
Ma si fugge tuttavia
Chi vuol esser lieto, sia
Di doman non c'è certezza.'
(Fair-fleeting Youth must snatch at happiness;
He knows not if to-morrow curse or bless.)
After the dance Madonna Diana, a gentle girl with a pale and lovely
face, sang to the low notes of the lute a plaint on unrequited love. As
by enchantment the noise and the laughter ceased, and all listened with
thoughtful and reminiscent attention. It was long before any one spoke,
and after the ending of the song the hush was broken only by the quiet
rustling of the fountain. But presently the voices and the mirth and the
music awoke again, and were to be heard till late at night, when the
laurels were lighted by fireflies, and in the darkened heaven reigned
the new-born moon. And over all the Paradiso floated a soft air, rich
with perfume of orange-blossom; and still trembled the notes of the
Medicean canzone:--
'Chi vuol esser lieto, sia
Di doman non c'è certezza.
VIII
The duke saw a glimmer of light in one of the four palace towers. It was
the lamp of Messer Ambrogio da Rosate, prime astrologer, and a member of
the Secret Council, who was observing the conjunction of Mars, Jupiter,
and Saturn in the sign of Aquarius, a matter of profound significance
for the house of Sforza.
As if pricked in his memory, the duke hastily saluted Madonna Lucrezia,
with whom he had been engaged in tender discourse, and entered the
palace. He looked at the clock, and having awaited the precise minute
and second enjoined by the astrologer, swallowed a rhubarb pill, and
consulted a calendar in which he read the following note:--
'_August 5th._--Eight minutes past ten of the evening, pray heartily on
your knees, after folding your hands and raising your eyes to Heaven.'
Fearing to be late, and so miss the prescription's efficacy, he hurried
to the chapel, unlighted save by a single lamp before a picture. The
duke loved the picture; it was by Leonardo, and represented Cecilia,
Countess of Bergamini, arrayed like the Madonna, blessing a
hundred-petalled rose. He counted eight minutes by the hour-glass, sank
on his knees, folded his hands, and recited the _Confiteor_. He prayed
long and fervently, his eyes on the picture.
'Mother of God,' he murmured, 'protect, save, and have mercy on me, on
my son Massimiliano, and Cesare, the newly-born. I commend unto thee
Beatrice, my consort, and Madonna Cecilia. And likewise Gian Galeazzo,
my nephew, for thou see'st my heart, and knowest that I wish no evil to
my nephew, though it may be that his death would set free not only my
state, but all Italy.'
Here he remembered the proof of his right to his throne which he had
obtained from the jurisconsult, and which stated that his elder brother
(father of Gian Galeazzo) having been born unto Francesco Sforza, the
condottiere, before he became Francesco Sforza and Duke of Milan,
whereas Ludovico was born unto the said Francesco _after_ he had become
duke--the younger not the elder was obviously the heir to the ducal
dignities of the common father.
At this moment, however, the decision seemed to Ludovico rather
ingenious than convincing. He hesitated to put it before the Mother of
God, contenting himself thus:--
'If in anything I have sinned or shall sin before thee, O Queen of
Heaven, thou knowest that I do so not for myself but for the good of my
people and of Italy. Mediate for me with God, and I will glorify thee by
the building in splendour of the cathedral in this town of Milan, and of
the Certosa at Pavia, and of other glorious monuments.'
After his prayer, candle in hand, he went toward his bedchamber, passing
through the dark rooms of the sleeping palace. In one of them, however,
he encountered Madonna Lucrezia.
'Truly, the god of Love favours me!' he thought.
'Signore!' exclaimed the girl; her voice broke, she would have thrown
herself on her knees before him, as she added, 'have pity on me, my
lord!'
And she told him that her brother Matteo Crivelli, chief of the
chamberlains, a man of abandoned life but whom she devotedly loved, had
lost at play great sums of the public money.
'Fear not, madonna! I will save your brother.'
He was silent for a moment, and added with a deep sigh:--
'And you too, O madonna, will you not be to me less cruel?'
She looked questioningly at him with serene and innocent eyes.
'I do not understand you, signore. What is your meaning?'
Her modesty rendered her yet fairer.
'It means, my sweet,' he said, throwing his arm almost roughly round
her, 'it means--but, Lucrezia, have you not seen that I love you?'
'Loose me! Let me go! What do you, signore! Madonna Beatrice----'
'Shall not know!' said the duke.
'No, my lord, no. She is so good, so generous to me. Leave me, for
pity's sake--'
'I will save your brother--do all your desire--be your slave. Only have
pity on me.'
And half-sincere in his passion and his tears, he murmured in trembling
tones those lines of the poet's:--
'I sing, poor swan, of my consumèd years,
But singing brings my torture no relief;
Love with his laughter blows the flame of grief,
And mocking cries, "Extinguish it with tears."'
'Let me go! Let me go!' said the girl desperately.
But he bent over her, feeling the freshness of her breath, the perfume
of violet and musk, and forcibly kissed her on the lips. For one moment
Lucrezia languished in his embrace, then, with a despairing cry, broke
from him and fled.
IX
Having reached the nuptial apartment, he found the lamp extinguished,
and Beatrice already reposing in the huge, mausoleum-like couch on a
dais in the middle of the floor under a blue silk baldachin. It was
adorned with silver curtains, and a coverlet, costly as the vestment of
a priest, of cloth of gold and pearls.
'Bice,' he whispered caressingly; 'Bice, dost thou sleep?' and he would
have saluted her, but she repulsed him.
'Bice--why is this?'
'Leave me in peace; I am fain of sleep.'
'But why, dear one, why? If thou knew'st how I adore thee!'
'Yes, yes, I know you adore us all together. Your consort, and Cecilia,
and _perdio_! the Muscovy slave-woman, the red-haired fool whom you
kissed in the obscurer angle of my wardrobe room!'
''Twas a jest.'
'A jest I care not for.'
'Alas, Bice, these many days thou hast been harsh to me! Well, I confess
it--I am guilty; 'twas a scurvy jest--a caprice.'
'Your caprices, my lord, are many.'
She turned towards him angrily. 'How is it you have no shame? Why, why
these lies? Do I not know you?--read you to the soul? I would not have
you think this jealousy; but I will not, hear you, my lord?--I _will
not_ be one among your lemans.'
'I swear to thee, Bice, I have loved none save thee. By my soul's
eternal weal, I swear it.'
She was silent, surprised less by his words than by the tone in which
they were uttered. He was not wholly lying. The more he deceived her the
more he felt he loved her, as if passion were inflamed by fear, qualms
of conscience, pity, and remorse.
'Pardon, Bice, pardon,' he implored; 'consider my love for thee----'
She submitted herself; and as he embraced her, invisible in the
darkness, he remembered serene and innocent eyes, and a perfume of
freshness, of violet and musk; the two loves confused themselves in an
exquisite sensation.
'Truly to-day thou art something like a lover!' she said with inward
pride.
'Of a truth, dear one; it is still as it was in our first days----'
'Foolishness!' cried Beatrice laughing; 'Fie on this trifling. Rather
should'st thou be thinking of deeper matters. It seems as though _his_
health were mending.'
'Nay, 'tis but few days since Luigi Marliani assured me there was no
hope for him,' replied the duke; ''tis true we have now a little
amendment, but it will not be for long; he is doomed beyond remission.'
'Who can tell?' urged Beatrice; 'he is over-tended. Of a truth,
Ludovico, I marvel at your patience. You bear insults like a sheep. You
say "The power is in our hands," but were it not better to renounce
power at once than to tremble for it night and day like thieves; to lick
the dust before that haughty bastard who is the King of France; to be
slaves at the mercy of the impudent Alfonso; to weary ourselves in
propitiating that perfidious sorceress of Aragon! They say she is
pregnant again: a new serpent will come forth from that cursed nest. And
to fare thus for our whole lives! Consider, Ludovico, for our whole
lives! And you call that having the power in our own hands!'
'But the physicians constantly aver,' repeated the duke, 'that this
malady is incurable; sooner or later----'
'Ay, 'tis later then. For ten years he hath been dying.'
There was a silence. Suddenly she threw her beautiful arm round his
neck, and drawing herself to him, she whispered in his ear--words which
made him shudder.
'Bice! may Christ and His most holy Mother pardon thee! Never--dost heed
me?--never again speak to me of that.'
'You are afraid, perhaps? Would you wish _me_ to try?'
He did not answer, but asked presently:--
'Of what thinkest thou?'
'My lord,' she answered, 'I am thinking about peaches.'
'Ay; I have bidden the gardener send thee of the ripest.'
'I care not for them. My thought was of the peaches of Messer Leonardo.
Hast thou heard aught of those?'
'What should I have heard?'
'That they be poisoned.'
'How poisoned?'
''Tis true. He hath poisoned them himself, by magic, for his
experiments. Monna Sidonia told me; wonderfully beautiful peaches!'
And again they were silent, embracing thus in the stillness and the
dark; their thoughts united, each listening to the quickened beat of the
other's heart--no further speech needed. At last Il Moro, with almost
paternal tenderness, kissed his young wife on the brow, and made the
sign of the cross.
'Sleep, dear one,' he said, 'sleep in peace.'
That night the duchess saw in her dreams fair peaches on a platter of
gold. She proved one and found it succulent and toothsome; but of a
sudden a voice cried unto her:--
'Poison! poison!' and again, 'Poison!'
The duke likewise dreamed his dream. And in it he fancied himself
walking on the shining lawn beside the fountain. And before him at a
little distance he saw three women, white-clad and embracing like fair
sisters. And nearing himself, he perceived the one to be Beatrice, and
the second Lucrezia, and the third Cecilia. He thanked his God that at
last they were friends; but in his heart he blamed them that they had
not been friends from the first.
X
The clock in the castle tower struck the hour of midnight, and
everywhere was the silence of sleep, saving only on the _altana_, where
the duchess was wont to gild her hair; for thither Morgantina, the
dwarf, had fled, having escaped from the closet in which she had been
confined: there, alone in the darkness, she bewailed the loss of her
baby.
'They have slain me my son! And wherefore, O Lord, wherefore? He had
done no wrong to any one; he alone comforted me!'
The night was serene; the air so pure, so transparent, that against the
horizon the icy summits of the Alps were visible, like everlasting
crystals. The stillness was long perturbed by the mournful cries of the
madwoman, like the keening of some bird of evil omen. Suddenly she gave
a sigh, raised her eyes to heaven, and was silent.
The stillness of death followed; and the fool smiled at the stars which,
far above in the measureless blue of a summer night, were shining upon
her--innocently and mysteriously shining.