LORENZO DE' MEDICI AND LUCRETIA DONATI.
To Lorenzo de' Medici,--or rather to the preeminence his personal
qualities, his family possessions, and his unequalled talents, gave him
over his countrymen,--some late travellers and politicians have
attributed the downfall of the liberties of Florence, and attacked his
memory as the precursor of tyrants and the preparer of slaves. It may be
so:--yet was it the fault of Lorenzo, if his collateral posterity
afterwards became the oppressors of that State of which he was the
father and the saviour? And since in this world some must command and
some obey, what power is so legitimate as that derived from the
influence of superior virtue and talent? from the employ of riches
obtained by honourable industry, and expended with princely munificence,
and subscribed to by the will and the affections of the people?
But I forget:--these are questions foreign to our subject. Politics I
never could understand in my life, and history I have forgotten,--or
would wish to forget,--perplexed by its conflicting evidence, and
shocked by its interminable tissue of horrors. Let others then scale the
height while we gather flowers at the foot; let others explore the mazes
of the forest; ours be rather
The gay parterre, the chequered shade,
The morning bower, the evening colonnade,
Those soft recesses of uneasy minds,
whence the din of doleful war, the rumour of cruelty and suffering, and
all the "fitful stir unprofitable" of the world are shut out, and only
the beautiful and good, or the graceful and the gay, are admitted. There
have been pens enough, Heaven knows, to chronicle the wrongs, the
crimes, the sorrows of our sex: why should I add an echo to that voice,
which from the beginning has cried aloud in the wilderness of this
world, upon women betrayed, and betraying in self-defence? A nobler and
more grateful task be mine, to show them how much of what is most fair,
most excellent, most sublime among the productions of human genius, has
been owing to their influence, direct or indirect; and call up the
spirits of the dead,--those who from their silent urns still rule the
pulses of our hearts--to bear witness to this truth.
* * * * *
It is not, then, Lorenzo the MAGNIFICENT, the statesman, and the chief
of a great republic, who finds a place in these pages,--but Lorenzo the
lover and the poet, round whose memory hover a thousand bright
recollections connected with the revival of arts and literature, and the
golden age of Italy. Let politicians say what they will, there is a
spell of harmony, there is music in his very name! how softly the
vowelled syllables drop from the lips--LORENZO DE' MEDICI!--it even
looks elegant when written. Yes, there is something in the mere sound of
a name. I remember once taking up a book, and a very celebrated book,
in which, after turning over some of the pages with pleasure, I came to
_Peter_ and _Laurence Medecis_,--I shut it hastily, as I would have
covered my ears to protect them from a sudden discord in music.
Between Petrarch and Lorenzo de' Medici, there occurs not a single great
name in Italian poetry. The century seemed to lie fallow, as if
preparing for the great birth of various genius which distinguished the
succeeding age. The sciences and the classics were chiefly studied, and
philosophy and Greek seemed to have banished love and poetry.
In such a state of things, it is rather surprising to find in Lorenzo
de' Medici the common case reversed; for by his own confession, it
appears that it was not love which made him a poet, but poetry which
made him a lover.
Giuliano, the brother of Lorenzo,--he who was afterwards assassinated by
the Pazzi, and was so beloved at Florence for his amiable character and
personal accomplishments, had been seized with a passion for a lady
named Simonetta, who was esteemed the most beautiful woman in Florence,
and is scarcely ever mentioned but with the epithet, "La bella
Simonetta."--She died in the bloom of early youth, and all the wit and
eloquence of her native city were called forth in condolences addressed
to Giuliano, or elegies to her memory, in prose and verse, Latin, Greek,
and Italian. Among the rest, Lorenzo, who had already made several
attempts in Italian poetry, pressed forward to celebrate the love and
the loss of his amiable brother:--in his zeal to do justice to so dear a
subject, he worked himself up into a fit of amorous and poetical
enthusiasm which soon found a real and living beauty for its object. But
to give this romantic tale its proper effect, it must be related in
Lorenzo's own words. He has left us a most circumstantial and elegant as
well as interesting and fanciful account of the birth and progress of
his poetic passion, and I extract it at length from Mr. Roscoe's
translation.
"A young lady of great personal attractions happened to die at Florence;
and as she had been very generally admired and beloved, so her death
was as generally lamented. Nor was this to be much wondered at; for,
independent of her beauty, her manners were so engaging, that almost
every person who had any acquaintance with her flattered himself that he
had obtained the chief place in her affections." (In other words, this
beautiful Simonetta was an exquisite coquette.)
"This fatal event excited the extreme regret of her admirers; and as she
was carried to the place of burial, with her face uncovered, those who
had known her when living, pressed for a last look at the object of
their adoration, and accompanied her funeral with their tears.
"On this occasion, all the eloquence, and all the wit of Florence were
exerted in paying due honours to her memory, both in prose and verse.
Amongst the rest, I also composed a few sonnets; and in order to give
them greater effect, I endeavoured to convince myself, that I too had
been deprived of the object of my love, and to excite in my own mind all
those passions that might enable me to move the affections of
others.--Under the influence of this delusion, I began to think how
severe was the fate of those by whom she had been beloved; and from
thence was led to consider, whether there was any other lady in this
city deserving of such honour and praise, and to imagine the happiness
that must be experienced by any one, whose good fortune could procure
him such a subject for his pen. I accordingly sought for some time
without having the satisfaction of finding any one, who in my judgment
was deserving of a sincere and constant attachment. But when I had
nearly resigned all expectations of success, chance threw in my way that
which had been denied to my most diligent inquiry; as if the God of Love
had selected this hopeless period, to give me a more decisive proof of
his power.--A public festival was held in Florence, to which all that
was noble and beautiful in the city resorted. To this I was brought by
some of my companions (I suppose as my destiny led) against my will, for
I had for some time past avoided such exhibitions; or if at times I
attended them, it proceeded rather from a compliance with custom, than
from any pleasure I experienced in them. Among the ladies there
assembled, I saw one of such sweet and attractive manners, that while I
regarded her, I could not help saying, 'If this person were possessed of
the delicacy, the understanding, the accomplishments of her who is
lately dead--most certainly she excels her in the charms of her
person.--"
* * * * *
"Resigning myself to my passion, I endeavoured to discover, if possible,
how far her manners and her conversation agreed with her appearance; and
here I found such an assemblage of extraordinary endowments, that it was
difficult to say whether she excelled more in person or in mind. Her
beauty was, as I have before mentioned, astonishing. She was of a just
and proper height. Her complexion extremely fair, but not
pale,--blooming but not ruddy. Her countenance was serious, without
being severe,--mild and pleasant without levity or vulgarity. Her eyes
were lively, without any indication of pride or conceit. Her whole
shape was so finely proportioned, that amongst other women she appeared
with superior dignity, yet free from the least degree of formality or
affectation. In walking, in dancing, or in other exercises which display
the person, every motion was elegant and appropriate. Her sentiments
were always just and striking, and have furnished materials for some of
my sonnets; she always spoke at the proper time, and always to the
purpose, so that nothing could be added, nothing taken away. Though her
remarks were often keen and pointed, yet they were so tempered as not to
give offence. Her understanding was superior to her sex, but without the
appearance of arrogance or presumption; and she avoided an error too
common among women, who, when they think themselves sensible, become for
the most part insupportable.[61] To recount all her excellencies would
far exceed my present limits, and I shall therefore conclude with
affirming, that there was nothing which could be desired in a beautiful
and an accomplished woman, which was not in her most abundantly found.
By these qualities I was so captivated, that not a power or faculty of
my body or mind remained any longer at liberty, and I could not help
considering the lady who had died, as the star of Venus, which at the
approach of the sun is totally overpowered and extinguished."
The real name of this beautiful and accomplished creature, Lorenzo was
too discreet to reveal; but from contemporary authors, we learn that she
was Lucretia Donati--a noble lady, distinguished at Florence for her
virtue and beauty, and of the same illustrious family which had given a
wife to Dante.
When Lorenzo undertook to fall in love thus poetically, he was only
twenty: the experiment was perilous; and it is not wonderful that this
imaginary passion had at first in his ardent and susceptible mind all
the effects of a real one: he neglected society--abandoned himself to
musing and solitude--affected the rural shades, and gave up his time,
and devoted all his powers, to celebrate, in the richest colouring of
poetry, her whom he had selected to be the mistress of his heart, or
rather the presiding goddess of his fancy.
The result is exactly what may be imagined, and a proof of the theory on
which I insist, that "nothing but what arises from the heart goes to the
heart, and that the verse which never quickened a pulse in the bosom of
the poet, never awakened a throb in that of his reader." If I were
required to express in one word the distinguishing character of
Lorenzo's amatory poems, I should say _grace_: they are full of refined
sentiment, elegant simplicity, the most exquisite little touches of
description, and illustrations, drawn either from external nature, or
from the refined mysteries of platonism; but there is a want of passion,
of power, and of pathos; there is no genuine emotion; no overflow of the
heart, bursting with its own intense feeling; no voice that cries aloud
for our sympathy, and echoes to our inmost bosom. What true lover ever
thought of apologising for having given his time to celebrate the object
of his love?
"Persecuted as I have been from my youth," says Lorenzo, "some
indulgence may perhaps be allowed me for having sought consolation in
these pursuits."--And again, in allusion to his political
situation,--"It is not to be wondered at if I endeavoured to alleviate
my anxiety by turning to more agreeable subjects of meditation; and in
celebrating the charms of my mistress, sought a temporary refuge from my
cares."--Thus Lorenzo tells us that it was not in obedience to the
dictates of his own overflowing heart, nor yet to celebrate the charms
of his mistress, and win her favour, that he wrote in her praise, but to
amuse himself and distract his mind from those cares and anxieties into
which he was so early plunged. It has followed as a natural consequence,
that elegant as are the amatory effusions of Lorenzo, they are less
celebrated, less popular, than his descriptive and moral poems. His
Ambra, La Nencia, and his songs for the carnival, have all in their
respective style a higher stamp of excellence and originality than his
love poetry. His forte seems to have been lively description,
philosophical illustration, and brilliant and sportive fancy, combined
with a classic taste and polished versification. Some of those sonnets,
which, though addressed to Madonna Lucretia, turn chiefly on some
beautiful thought or description, are finished like gems; as that on
Solitude--
Cerchi chi vuol le pompe e gli alti onori;
and that well known and charming one, "Sopra Violetti,"
Non di verdi giardin, ornati e colti, &c.
both of which have been happily translated by Roscoe; and to these may
be added the address to Cytherea--
Lascia l' isola tua tanta diletta!
Lascia il tuo regno delicato e bello
Ciprigna Dea! &c.
There is another, not so well known, distinguished by its peculiar fancy
and elegance--
Spesso mi torna a mente, anzi gia mai, &c.
In this he recalls to mind the time and the place, and even the vesture
in which his gentle lady first appeared to him--
Quanto vaga, gentil, leggiadra, e pia
Non si puo dir, ne imaginar assai;
and he beautifully adds,
Quale sopra i nevosi, ed alti monti
Apollo spande il suo bel lume adorno,
Tal' i crin suoi sopra la bianca gonna!
Il tempo e 'l luogo non convien ch' io conti,
Che dov' e si bel sole e sempre giorno;
E Paradiso, ov' e si bella Donna!
"As over the snowy summits of the high mountains Apollo sheds his golden
beams, so flowed her golden tresses over her white vest.--But for the
_time_ and the _place_, is it necessary that I should note them? Where
shines so fair a sun, can it be other than day? Where dwells so
excellent a beauty, can it be other than Paradise?"
It happened in the midst of Lorenzo's visions of love and poetry, that
he was called upon to give his hand to a wife chosen by his father for
political reasons. His inclinations were not consulted, as is plain
from the blunt amusing manner in which he has noted it down in his
memoranda. "I, Lorenzo, took to wife Donna Clarice Orsini,--or rather
she was given to me, (ovvero mi fu data) on such a day." Yet a union
thus inauspiciously contracted, was rendered, by the affectionate
disposition of Lorenzo, and the amiable qualities of his wife, rather
happy than otherwise; it is true, we have no poetical compliments
addressed by Lorenzo to Donna Clarice, but there is extant a little
billet written to her a few months after their marriage, from the tone
of which it is fair to suppose, that Lorenzo had exchanged his poetic
flame for a real attachment to an amiable woman.[62]
There is a very beautiful and elegant passage in the beginning of
Lorenzo's commentary on his own poems, in which he enlarges on the
theory of love. "The conditions (he says) which appear necessarily to
belong to a true, exalted, and worthy love, are two. First,--_to love
but one_: secondly,--_to love that one always_. Not many lovers have
hearts so generous as to be capable of fulfilling these two conditions;
and exceedingly few women display sufficient attractions to withhold men
from the violation of them; yet without these there is no true love."
And afterwards, enumerating those charms of person and mind which
inspire affection, he adds, "and yet these estimable qualities are not
enough, unless the lover possess sensibility of heart to discern them,
and elevation and generosity of soul to appreciate them."
This in the original is very elegantly expressed, and the sentiment is
as true as it is exalted and graceful; but that Lorenzo was not always
thus philosophically refined, that he could descend from these
Platonics to be impassioned and in earnest, and that when touched to the
heart, he could pour forth the language of the heart, we have a single
instance, which it is impossible to allude to without feeling some
emotion of curiosity, which can never now be gratified.
We find among Lorenzo's poems, written later in life than those
addressed to Lucretia Donati, one entitled simply "An Elegy;" the style
is different from that of his earlier poetry, and has more of the
terseness and energy of Dante than the sweetness and flow of Petrarch.
It begins
"Vinto dagli amorosi, empi martiri."
"Subdued by the fierce pangs of my love, a thousand times have I taken
up the pen, to tell thee, O gentle lady mine, all the sighs of my sick
heart. Then fearing thy displeasure, I have, on a second thought, flung
it from me. * * * Yet must I speak, for if words were wanting, my pallid
cheek would betray my suffering."
He then tells her that he does not seek her dishonour, but only her kind
thoughts, and that he may find a place within her gentle heart.
Perche non cerco alcun tuo disonore,
Ma sol la grazia tua, e che piaci
Che'l mio albergo sia dentro al tuo core!
He wishes that he might be once permitted to twine his fingers in her
fair hair; to gaze into her eyes;--but he complains that she will not
even meet his look,--that she resolutely turns her eyes another way at
his approach.--"But do with me what thou wilt: while I live upon this
earth, still I must love thee, since it so pleaseth Heaven--I swear it!
and my hand writes it!
* * * * *
"Come then! oh come, while yet thy gracious looks may avail me, for
delay is death to one who loves likes me! Would I could send with this
scroll all the torture of heart, the tears and sighs, the gesture and
the look, that should accompany it!"
Ma s' egli avvien, che soletti ambo insieme,
Posso il braccio tenerti al collo avvolto,
Vedrai come d'amore alto arde e geme,
Vedrai cader dal mio pallido volto,
Nel tuo candido sen lagrime tante.
(I leave these lines untranslated for the benefit of the Italian
reader). After a few more stanzas, we have this very unequivocal
passage:
"O would to Heaven, lady, that marriage had made us one! ah, why didst
thou not come into this world a little sooner?--or I a little later? Yet
why these vain thoughts? since I am doomed to see thee the bride of
another, and am myself fettered in these marriage bonds!
* * * * *
"Thou knowest, Madonna, that these sighs, these burning words, are not
feigned; for even as Love dictates does my hand write.
* * * * *
"My life and death are with thee;--grant me but a few words, and I am
content to live;--if not, let me die! and let my poor remains be laid in
some forlorn and sequestered spot. Let none whisper the cause of my
death, lest it should grieve thee! enough if some kind hand engrave upon
my tomb,--'_He perished through too much love and too much cruelty._'"
I have given, literally, the leading sentiments of this little poem, but
have left untranslated many of the stanzas. There are one or two
concetti; but as Ginguene truly observes on a different occasion, "Dans
les poetes Italiens, souvent la passion est vraie, meme quand
l'expression ne l'est pas."
The style is so natural, the transitions so abrupt, the expressions so
energetic, and there are so few of those descriptive ornaments which are
plentifully scattered through Lorenzo's other poems, that I should
pronounce it the real effusion of a heart, touched,--and deeply touched.
It is to be regretted that we know nothing of the name or real character
of an object who, deserving or not, could call forth such strong lines
as these; and in the plenitude of his power and fame, and in the midst
of his great and serious avocations, deeply, though secretly, tyrannise
over the peace of Lorenzo.
He is accused,--I regret that I must allude to it,--of considerable
licence of manners with regard to women;--a reproach from which Roscoe
has fairly vindicated him. United, at the age of twenty-one, to a woman
he had never seen; residing in a dissipated capital, surrounded by
temptation, and from disposition peculiarly sensible to the influence of
women, it is not matter of astonishment if Lorenzo's conjugal faith was
not preserved immaculate,--if he occasionally became the thrall of
beauty, and--(since he was not likely to be caught by vulgar
charms,)--if he sighed, _par hazard_, for one who was not to be tempted
by power or gold: such a one as his Elegy indicates. Two points are
certain,--that his uniform respect and kindness to his wife Clarice,
left her no reason to complain; while his discretion was such, that
though historians have hazarded a general accusation against him in this
one particular, there exists not in any contemporary writer one
scandalous anecdote of his private life, nor the name of any woman to
whom he was attached, except that of his poetical love, Lucretia Donati.
Lorenzo de' Medici was not handsome in face, nor graceful in form; but
he was captivating in his manners, and excelled in all manly exercises.
The engraving prefixed to Roscoe's life of him, does not do justice to
his countenance. I remember the original picture in the gallery of
Florence, on which I have looked day after day for many minutes
together, with an interest that can only be felt on the very spot where
the memory of Lorenzo is "wherever we look, wherever we move." In spite
of the stoop in the shoulders, the unbecoming dress, and the harsh
features, I was struck by the grand simplicity of the head, and the
mingled expression of acuteness, benevolence, and earnest thought in the
countenance; the imagination filled with the splendid character of the
man, might possibly have perceived more than the eye,--but such was my
impression.
Lorenzo died in his forty-fourth year, in 1492. He is not interred in
that celebrated chapel of his family, rich with the sublimest
productions of Michael Angelo's chisel: he lies at the opposite side of
the church, in a magnificent sarcophagus of bronze, which contains also
the ashes of his murdered brother, Giuliano.--Among the recollections,
sweet and bitter, which I brought from Florence, is the remembrance of a
day when retiring, from the glare of an Italian noontide, I stood in the
church of San Lorenzo, sketching the tomb of Lorenzo and Giuliano de'
Medici. The spot whence I viewed it was so obscure, that I could scarce
see the lines traced by my pencil; but immediately behind the
sarcophagus, there flowed from above a stream of strong light, relieving
with added effect the dark outline of the sculptured ornaments. Through
the grating which formed the background, I could see the figures of
shaven monks and stoled priests gliding to and fro, like apparitions;
and while I thought more,--O much more,--of the still and cold repose
which wrapped the dead, than of their high deeds and far-spread fame,
the plaintive music of a distant choir, chanting the _Via crucis_,
floated through the pillared aisles, receding or approaching as the
singers changed their station; swelling, sinking, and at length dying
away on the ear.
FOOTNOTES:
[61] Lorenzo tells us in the original, that the ladies who rendered
themselves thus insupportable, were called (_vulgarly_)
_Saccenti_:--query--_vulgarly, Blue-stockings_?
[62] Lorenzo de' Medici to his wife Clarice:--
"I arrived here in safety, and am in good health: this, I believe, will
please thee better than any thing else, except my return, at least so I
judge from my own desire to be once more with thee. Associate as much as
possible with my father and sisters. I shall make all possible speed to
return to thee, for it appears a thousand years till I see thee again.
Pray to God for me--if thou want any thing from this place write in
time. From Milan, 22d July, 1469. THY LORENZO."