BIANCA, GRAND DUCHESS OF TUSCANY
More than three centuries have gone since Florence made merry over the
death of her Grand Duchess, Bianca. It was an occasion for rejoicing;
her name was bandied from lips to lips--"La Pessima Bianca"; jeers and
laughter followed her to her unmarked grave in the Church of San
Lorenzo. But through the ages her picture has come down to us as she
strutted on the world's stage in all her pride and beauty, with a
vividness which few better women of her time retain.
It was in the year 1548, when our boy-King, the sixth Edward, was fresh
to his crown, that Bianca Capello was cradled in the palace of her
father, one of the greatest men of Venice, Senator and Privy Councillor.
As a child she was as beautiful as she was wilful; the pride of her
father, the despair of his wife, her stepmother--her little head full of
romance, her heart full of rebellion against any kind of discipline or
restraint.
Before she had left the schoolroom Capello's daughter was, by common
consent, the fairest girl in her native city, with a beauty riper than
her years. Tall, and with a well-developed figure of singular grace,
she carried her head as proudly as any Queen. Her fair hair fell in a
rippling cascade far below her waist; her face, hands, and throat, we
are told, were "white as lilies," save for the delicate rose-colour that
tinted her cheeks. Her eyes were large and dark, and of an almost
dazzling brilliance; and her full, pouting lips were red and fragrant as
a rose.
Such was Bianca Capello on the threshold of womanhood, as you may see
her pictured to-day in Bronzino's miniature at the British Museum, with
a loveliness which set the hearts of the Venetian gallants a-flutter
before our Shakespeare was in his cradle. She might, if she would, have
mated with almost any noble in Tuscany, had not her foolish, wayward
fancy fallen on Pietro Bonaventuri, a handsome young clerk in Salviati's
bank, whose eyes had often strayed from his ledgers to follow her as, in
the company of her maid, the Senator's daughter took her daily walk past
his office window.
At sight of so fair a vision Pietro was undone; he fell violently in
love with her long before he exchanged a word with her, and although no
one knew better than he the gulf that separated the daughter of a
nobleman and a Senator from the drudge of the quill, he determined to
win her. Youth and good-looks such as his, with plenty of assurance to
support them, had done as much for others, and they should do it for
him. How they first met we know not, but we know that shortly after this
momentous meeting Bianca had completely lost her heart to the knight of
the quill, with the handsome face, the dark, flashing eyes, and the
courtly manner.
Other meetings followed--secret rendezvous arranged by the duenna
herself in return for liberal bribes--to keep which Bianca would steal
out of her father's palace at dead of night, leaving the door open
behind her to ensure safe return before dawn. On one such occasion, so
the story runs, Bianca returned to find the door closed against her by a
too officious hand. She dared not wake the sleepers to gain
admittance--that would be to expose her secret and to cover herself with
disgrace--and in her fears and alarm she fled back to her lover.
However this may be, we know that, for some urgent reason or other, the
young lovers disappeared one night together from Venice and made their
way to Florence to find a refuge under the roof of Pietro's parents.
Here a terrible disillusion met Bianca at the threshold. Her
husband--for, on the runaway journey, Pietro had secured the friendly
services of a village priest to marry them--had told her that he was the
son of noble parents, kin to his employers, the Salviatis. The home to
which he now introduced her was little better than a hovel, with poverty
looking out of its windows.
Here indeed was a sorry home-coming for the new-made bride, daughter of
the great Capello! There was not even a drudge to do the housework,
which Bianca was compelled to share with her bucolic mother-in-law. It
is even said that she was compelled to do laundry-work in order to keep
the domestic purse supplied. Her husband had forfeited his meagre
salary; she had equally sacrificed the fortune left to her by her
mother. Sordid, grinding poverty stared both in the face.
To return to her own home in Venice was impossible. So furious were her
father and stepmother at her escapade that a large reward was advertised
for the capture of her husband, "alive or dead," and a sentence of death
had been procured from the Council of Ten in the event of his arrest.
More than this, a sentence of banishment was pronounced against Pietro
and Bianca; the maid who had connived at their illicit wooing and flight
paid for her treachery with her life; and Pietro's uncle ended his days
in a loathsome dungeon.
Such was the vengeance taken by Bartolomeo Capello. As for the runaways,
they spent a long honeymoon in concealment and hourly dread of the fate
that hung over them. It was well known, however, in Florence where they
were in hiding; and curious crowds were drawn to the Bonaventuri hovel
to catch a glimpse of the heroes of a scandal with which all Italy was
ringing. Thus it was that Francesco de Medici first set eyes on the
woman who was to play so great a part in his life.
There could be no greater contrast than that between Francesco de
Medici, heir to the Tuscan Grand Dukedom, and the beautiful young wife
of the bank-clerk, now playing the rôle of maid-of-all-work and
charwoman. It is said that Francesco was a madman; and indeed what we
know of him makes this description quite plausible. He was a man of
black brow and violent temper, repelling alike in appearance and
manner. He was, we are told, "more of a savage than a civilised human
being." His food was deluged with ginger and pepper; his favourite fare
was raw eggs filled with red pepper, and raw onions, of which he ate
enormous quantities. He drank iced water by the gallon, and slept
between frozen sheets. He was a man, moreover, of evil life, familiar
with every form of vicious indulgence. His only redeeming feature was a
love of art, which enriched the galleries of Florence.
Such was the Medici--half-ogre, half-madman, who, riding one day through
a Florence slum, saw at the window of a mean dwelling the beautiful face
of Bianca Bonaventuri, and rode on leaving his heart behind. Here indeed
was a dainty dish to set before his jaded appetite. The owner of that
fair face, with the crimson lips and the black, flashing eyes, must be
his. On the following day a great Court lady, the Marchesa Mondragone,
presents herself at the Bonaventuri door, with smiles and gracious
words, bearing an invitation to Court for the lady of the window.
"Impossible," bluntly answers Signora Bonaventuri; her daughter-in-law
has no clothes fit to be seen at Court. "But," persists the Marchesa,
"that is a matter that can easily be arranged. It will be a pleasure to
me to supply the necessary outfit, if the Signora and her
daughter-in-law will but come to-morrow to the Mondragone Palace." The
bride, when consulted, is not unwilling; and the following day, in
company with her mother-in-law, she is effusively received by the
Marchesa, and is feasting her eyes on exquisite robes and the glitter
of rare gems, among which she is invited to make her choice. A moment
later Francesco enters, and with courtly grace is kissing the hand of
his new divinity....
Then followed secret meetings such as marked Bianca's first unhappy
wooing in Venice--hours of rapture for the Tuscan Duke, of flattered
submission by the runaway bride; and within a few weeks we find Bianca
installed in a palace of her own with Francesco's guards and equipage
ever at its door, while his newly made bride, Giovanna, Archduchess of
Austria, kept her lonely vigil in the apartments which so seldom saw her
husband.
Francesco, indeed, had no eyes or thought for any but the lovely woman
who had so completely enslaved him. As for her, condemn her as we must,
much can be pleaded in extenuation of her conduct. She had been basely
deceived and betrayed. On the one side was a life of sordid poverty and
drudgery, with a husband for whom she had now nothing but dislike and
contempt; on the other was the ardent homage of the future ruler of
Tuscany, with its accompaniment of splendour, luxury, and power. A fig
for love! ambition should now rule her life. She would drain the cup of
pleasure, though the dregs might be bitter to the taste.
She was now in the very prime of her beauty, and a Queen in all but the
name. Between her and her full Queendom were but two obstacles--her
lover's plain, unattractive wife, and her own worthless husband; and of
these obstacles one was soon to be removed from her path.
Pietro, who had been made chamberlain to the Tuscan Court, was more
than content that his wife should go her own way, so long as he was
allowed to go his. He was kept very agreeably occupied with love affairs
of his own. The richest widow in Florence, Cassandra Borgianni, was
eager to lavish her smiles and favours on him; and the knowledge that
two of his predecessors in her affection had fallen under the assassin's
knife only lent zest to a love adventure which was after his heart.
Warnings of the fate that might await him in turn fell on deaf ears.
When his wife ventured to point out the danger he retorted, "If you say
another word I will cut your throat." The following night as he was
returning from a visit to the widow, a dagger was sheathed in his heart,
and Pietro's amorous race was run.
Such was the end of the bank-clerk and his eleventh-hour glories and
love adventures. Now only Giovanna remained to block the way to the
pinnacle of Bianca's ambition; and her health was so frail that the
waiting might not be long. Giovanna had provided no successor to her
husband (who had now succeeded to his Grand Dukedom); if Bianca could
succeed where the Grand Duchess had failed, she could at least ensure
that a son of hers would one day rule over Tuscany.
Thus one August day in 1576 the news flashed round Florence that a male
child had been born in the palace on the Via Maggiore. Francesco was in
the "seventh heaven" of delight. Here at last was the long-looked-for
inheritor of his honours--the son who was to perpetuate the glories of
the Medici and to thwart his brother, the Cardinal, who had so
confidently counted on the succession for himself. And Madame Bianca
professed herself equally delighted, although her pleasure was qualified
by fear.
She had played her part with consummate cleverness; but there were two
women who knew the true story of the birth of the child, which had been
smuggled into the palace from a Florence slum. One was the changeling's
mother, a woman of the people, whom a substantial bribe had induced to
part with her new-born infant; the other was Bianca's waiting woman.
These witnesses to the imposture must be silenced effectually.
Hired assassins made short work of the mother. The waiting-maid was
"left for dead" in a mountain-pass, to which she had been lured; but she
survived long enough at least to communicate her secret to the Grand
Duke's brother, the Cardinal Ferdinand de Medici.
Bianca was now in a parlous plight. At any moment her enemy, the
Cardinal, might betray her to her lover, and bring the carefully planned
edifice of her fortunes tumbling about her ears. But she proved equal
even to this emergency. Taking her courage in both hands, she herself
confessed the fraud to the Grand Duke, who not only forgave her (so
completely was he under the spell of her beauty) but insisted on calling
the gutter-child his son.
The tables, however, were soon to be turned on her, for Giovanna, who
had long despaired of providing an heir to her husband, gave birth a
few months later to a male child. Florence was jubilant, for the Grand
Duchess was as beloved as her rival was detested; and the christening of
the heir was made the occasion of festivities and rejoicing. Bianca's
day of triumph seemed at last to be over. For a time she left Florence
to hide her humiliation; but within a year she was back again, to be
received with open arms of welcome by the Duke. During her absence she
had made peace with her family, and when her father and brother came to
Florence to visit her, they were received by Francesco with regal
entertainments, and sent away loaded with presents and honours.
Bianca had now reached the zenith of her power and splendour. Before she
had been back many months the Grand Duchess died, to the undisguised
relief of her husband, who hastened from her funeral to the arms of her
rival. Her position was now secure, unassailable; and before Giovanna
had been two months in the family vault, Bianca was secretly married to
her Grand ducal lover.
Florence was furious. But what mattered that? The Venetian Senate had
recognised Bianca as a true daughter of the Republic. She was the legal
wife of the ruler of Tuscany. She was Grand Duchess at last, and she
meant all the world to know it. That she was cordially hated by her
husband's subjects, that the air was full of stories of her
extravagance, her intemperance, and her cruelty, gave her no moment's
unhappiness. For eight years she reigned as Queen, wielding the sceptre
her husband's hands were too weak or indifferent to hold. Giovanna's
son had followed his mother to the grave; and the child of the slums,
who had been so fruitlessly smuggled into her palace, had been
legitimated.
The only thorn now left in her bed of roses was the enmity of the Grand
Duke's brother, the Cardinal; and her greatest ambition was to win him
to her side. In the autumn of 1787 he was invited to Florence, and as
the culmination of a series of festivities, a grand banquet was given,
at which he had the place of honour, at her right hand. The feast was
drawing near to its end. Bianca, with sparkling eyes and flushed face,
looking lovelier than she had ever looked before, was at her happiest,
for the Cardinal had at last succumbed to her bright eyes and honeyed
words. It was the crowning moment of her many triumphs, when life left
nothing more to desire.
Then it was, at the supreme moment, that tragedy in its most terrible
form fell on the scene of festivity and mirth. While Bianca was smiling
her sweetest on the Cardinal she was seized by violent pains, "her mouth
foams, her face is distorted by agony; she shrieks aloud that she is
dying. Francesco tries to go to her aid, but his steps are suddenly
arrested. He too is seized by the same terrible anguish. A few hours
later both she and he breathe their last breath."
"Poison" was the word which ran through the palace and soon through
Florence from blanched lips to blanched lips. Some said it was the
Cardinal who had done the deed; others whispered stories of a poisoned
tart designed by Bianca for the Cardinal, who refused to be tempted.
Whereupon the Grand Duke had eaten of it, and Bianca, "seeing that her
plot had so tragically miscarried, seized the tart from her husband's
hand and ate what was left of it."
The truth will never be known. What we do know is that within a few
hours of the last joke and the last drained glass of that fatal banquet
the bodies of Francesco and Bianca were lying in death side by side in
an adjacent room, the door of which was locked against the eyes of the
curious--even against the physicians.
In the solemn lying-in-state that followed Bianca had no place.
Francesco alone, by his brother's orders, wore his crown in death. As
for Bianca, her body was hurried away and flung into the common vault of
San Lorenzo, with the light of two yellow wax torches to bear it
company, and the jibes and jeers of Florence for its only requiem.