THE BRIGHTER SIDE OF THE SIXTEENTH CENTURY
The tales of crime and sensuality which fill the annals of the sixteenth
century are so repulsive that it is with a feeling of relief that we
turn our attention to other pictures of the same time which are
altogether pleasing in their outlines. The court of the Duke of Urbino
is the most conspicuous example of this better side of life, and his
talented and accomplished wife, Elizabetta Gonzaga, a daughter of the
reigning house of Mantua, presided over a literary salon which was
thronged with all the wit and wisdom of the land. Urbino was but a
rocky, desolate bit of mountainous country, not more than forty miles
square, in the Marches of Ancona, on a spur of the Tuscan Apennines,
about twenty miles from the Adriatic and not far from historic Rimini,
but here was a most splendid principality with a glittering court.
Federigo, Count of Montefeltro, had been created Duke of Urbino by Pope
Sixtus IV. in 1474, and he it was who laid the foundations for that
prosperous state which at his death passed into the hands of his son
Guidobaldo, the husband of Elizabetta. Federigo's immense wealth was not
gained by burdening his subjects with heavy taxes, but rather from the
money which he was able to earn as a military leader, for he was a noble
soldier of fortune. Vespasiano tells us, with regard to his military
science, that he was excelled by no general of his time, and his good
faith was never questioned. He was also a man of singularly religious
nature, and no morning passed without his hearing mass upon his knees.
In his lifetime he served no less than three pontiffs, two kings of
Naples, and two dukes of Milan; the republic of Florence and several
Italian leagues had appointed him their general in the field, and in
this long life of warfare the sums of money paid him for his services
were immense. Dennistoun relates that in the year 1453 "his war-pay from
Alfonso of Naples exceeded eight thousand ducats a month, and for many
years he had from him and his son an annual peace-pension of six
thousand ducats in the name of past services. At the close of his life,
when general of the Italian league, he drew, in war, one hundred and
sixty-five thousand ducats of annual stipend, forty-five thousand being
his own share." With this wealth he caused his desert-like domain to
rejoice and blossom as the rose. His magnificent fortified palace was
most elaborately decorated with rare marbles and priceless carvings,
frescos, panel pictures, tapestries, tarsia work, stucco reliefs, and
works of art of all kinds; here, according to his biographer Muzio, he
maintained a suite so numerous and distinguished as to rival that of any
royal household. So famed indeed did Urbino become, that all the
chivalry of Italy crowded the palace to learn manners and the art of war
from its courteous duke.
Further details are furnished by Vespasiano, who says that "his
household, which consisted of five hundred mouths entertained at his own
cost, was governed less like a company of soldiers than a strict
religious community. There was no gaming or swearing, but the men
conversed with the utmost sobriety." It is interesting to know that
among his court officers were included forty-five counts of the duchy
and of other states, seventeen gentlemen, five secretaries, four
teachers of grammar, logic, and philosophy, fourteen clerks in public
offices, five architects and engineers, five readers during meals, and
four transcribers of manuscripts. Federigo had ever shown himself a
liberal and enlightened monarch, and he had early acquired a solid
culture which enabled him, when he grew to manhood, to bestow his
patronage in an intelligent manner. Scholars and artists were clustered
about him in great numbers; Urbino was widely known as the Italian
Athens, and as one of the foremost centres of art and literature in all
Europe, when Elizabetta Gonzaga was wedded to Guidobaldo and became the
chatelaine of the palace. The young duke and his wife began their life
together under the most auspicious circumstances. From what his tutor,
Odasio of Padua, says about his boyhood, it is evident that if he were
alive to-day he could easily obtain one of the Cecil Rhodes Oxford
fellowships, for we are told that he cared only for study and for manly
sports, and that he was of an upright character. His memory was so
retentive that he could repeat whole books, word for word, after many
years, and in more ways than one he had displayed a wonderful precocity.
Elizabetta, too, had been given a most liberal and careful education,
and her ready intelligence was equalled only by her careful tact and her
perfect _savoir faire_. Indeed, on account of her many attainments,
personal charm, and her refining influence, which was far-reaching, she
may be likened to that celebrated Frenchwoman Catherine de Vivonne,
Madame de Rambouillet, whose hotel was, a century later, such a
rendezvous for the gentler spirits of France in that hurly-burly period
which followed the religious wars. Endowed as she was by nature, it was
by most fortuitous circumstance that she was called to preside over the
court of Urbino, for at that time there was no other woman in Italy who
was so fitted for such a distinguished position. It was in the last
decade of the _quattrocento_ that Elizabetta was married, and she found
clustered about her from the very start illustrious artists and men of
letters. Melozzo da Forli and Giovanni Santi--Raphael's father--were
there, and there the early youth of Raphael was spent; Jan van Eyck and
Justus of Ghent, the great Flemish painters, were also there, and the
palace was adorned with many monuments to their skill. Here it was that
Piero della Francesca had written his celebrated work on the science of
perspective, Francesco di Giorgio his _Trattato d'Architettura_, and
Giovanni Santi his poetical account of the artists of his time; and here
it was in the first days of the sixteenth century that Elizabetta was
the centre of a group which was all sweetness and light when compared
with the prevailing habits of life.
In this circle were to be found, among others, Bernardo Bibbiena, the
patron of Berni, of whom Raphael has left us a portrait which is now in
the Pitti Palace; Giuliano de' Medici, whose marble statue by Michael
Angelo may still be seen in San Lorenzo at Florence; Cardinal Pietro
Bembo, who had in his youth fallen a victim to the charms of Lucrezia
Borgia when she first went to Ferrara; Emilia Pia, the wife of Antonio
da Montefeltro, who is described as "a lady of so lively wit and
judgment, that she seems to govern the whole company"; and last, but far
from least, Baldassare Castiglione, that model courtier and fine wit,
who has left a picture of Urbino in his celebrated book _Il Cortegiano_,
which was long known in Italy as _Il Libro d'Oro_. This volume is an
elaborate discussion of the question, What constitutes a perfect
courtier; and it was for a long time a most comprehensive and final
compendium, handbook, and guide for all who wished to perfect
themselves in courtly grace. What interests us most in the book,
however, is the fact that Castiglione has put this discussion of polite
manners into the form of a conversation which he supposes to have taken
place in the drawing room of the Countess of Urbino, that being the most
likely spot in all Europe for such a discussion at such a time, for
Guidobaldo's court was "confessedly the purest and most elevated in all
Italy." Castiglione was one of Elizabetta's most ardent admirers, and he
says of her that no one "approached but was immediately affected with
secret pleasure, and it seemed as if her presence had some powerful
majesty, for surely never were stricter ties of love and cordial
friendship between brothers than with us."
Count Guidobaldo early became a cripple and an invalid, too ardent
devotion to books and to athletic pursuits at the same time having
undermined a constitution that was never strong; therefore, it was his
custom to retire for the night at an early hour; but it was in the
evening that the countess held court, and then were gathered together,
for many years, all the brightest minds of Italy, who felt the charm of
her presence and the value of her stimulating personality. Urbino was a
school of good manners, as Naples had been in the days of Queen Joanna;
it was the first great literary salon in modern history, and, presided
over by a woman who was a veritable _grande dame de societe_, its
influence was by no means confined to a narrow sphere. Even in far-away
England, Urbino was known and appreciated; and Henry VII., to show his
esteem for its ruler, conferred the Order of the Garter upon Guidobaldo.
In acknowledgment of this favor, Castiglione was sent to the English
court to bear the thanks of his lord, and with him he took as a present
Raphael's _Saint George and the Dragon_, which, by the way, was taken
from England when Cromwell ordered the sale of the art treasures of
Charles I., and may now be seen at the Louvre. The old Count Federigo
had made all this refined magnificence possible, it is true, and
Guidobaldo had been in every way a worthy successor to his father,
though lacking his rugged strength; but to Guidobaldo's wife, the
gracious and wise Elizabetta Gonzaga, belongs the credit for having kept
Urbino up to a high standard--an achievement of which few, if any, other
women of her time were capable. There was needed a person who combined
worldly knowledge with education and a sane, decent philosophy of life,
and Guidobaldo's wife was that person.
Veronica Gambara deserves a place among the good and illustrious women
of this time; and though she occupied a position far less conspicuous
than that of the Countess of Urbino, she was still a person of
reputation and importance. Born in the year 1485, her "fortunate
parents," as Zamboni calls them, gave her a most careful and thorough
education, and as a young woman she was noted for her poetic gifts,
which were of a high order. At the age of twenty-five she married
Ghiberto, Count of Correggio, and their union was one of true sympathy
and deep attachment, such as was rarely seen then, when the _mariage de
convenance_ was more in vogue, perhaps, than it is in these later days
in Paris. Nine happy years they spent together, and two sons were born
to them; then Ghiberto died, leaving Veronica in such grief that she
fell ill and hovered a long time between life and death. In one of her
poems she relates that it was the fear that she might not meet her
beloved husband in Paradise which prevented her from dying with him. She
had work to do, however, as her husband, in sign of his great confidence
in her, had made her his sole executrix and given into her care the
government of Correggio. Veronica had always possessed a lively
imagination, and now in her grief her sorrow was shown to the world in
a most extravagant way. She wore the heaviest and blackest mourning
obtainable; her apartments, furnished henceforth with the bare
necessities of life, were tapestried in black; and black was the hue of
her livery, her carriages, and her horses. To further proclaim to all
the world her love for the departed, she had painted over the door of
her chamber the couplet which Virgil has ascribed to Dido:
"Ille meos, primus qui me sibi junxit, amores
Abstulit: ille habeat secum servetque sepulchro!"
[He who first linked me to himself hath borne away my affection: may he
possess it still and retain it in his grave!]
As to her personal appearance, Veronica was not beautiful in face, as
her features were irregular; but it was said of her in her early
womanhood that if her face had equalled her form she would have been one
of the most beautiful women of her time. She was high-strung,
enthusiastic, and passionate, but she possessed a character and an
intelligence which enabled her to hold herself in check; she was a most
devoted wife and entirely domestic in her disposition. Her poetry is
addressed chiefly to her husband, and she never tires of extolling his
many virtues. His eyes, in particular, seem to have been especially
beautiful in her sight, as she devotes no less than six sonnets and a
madrigal to a description of their charms, calling them _occhi
stellante_, and telling of their power in most fervid terms. We cannot,
however, consider her as a woman who was wholly concerned with her own
small affairs, as her letters show her to have been in communication
with the most illustrious literary men and women of all Italy, including
Ariosto, Bembo, Sannazzaro, and Vittoria Colonna. Though her literary
baggage was not extensive, the few sonnets she has left have a strength,
simplicity, and sincerity which were rare among the poets of her time.
Her best poem was one addressed to the rival sovereigns, the Emperor
Charles V., and the brilliant Francis I. of France; in it she pleads
with them to give peace to Italy and join their forces, so as to drive
back from the shores of Europe the host of the infidels. Her death
occurred in the year 1550, and then, Mrs. Jameson tells us in somewhat
ambiguous phrase, "she was buried by her husband." A little reflection
will clear away the doubt, however, and make clear the fact that she was
laid to rest beside the husband for whom she had buried herself in black
for so many years.
No woman more completely devoted herself to her husband's memory, by
means of her enduring verse, or deserves a higher place in the annals of
conjugal poetry, than Vittoria Colonna; such laurel wreaths did she put
upon the brow of her spouse, the Marquis of Pescara, that Ariosto was
tempted to say, in substance, that if Alexander had envied Achilles the
fame he had acquired in the songs of Homer, how much more would he have
envied Pescara those strains wherein his gifted wife had exalted his
fame above that of all contemporary heroes! Vittoria came from most
illustrious families, as her father was the Grand Constable Fabrizio
Colonna and her mother was Anna di Montefeltro, daughter of Federigo,
the first great Duke of Urbino. At the early age of four, fate joined
Vittoria in an infant marriage to the young Count d'Avalo, who was of
her own age, and who later, as the Marquis of Pescara, really became her
husband. When Vittoria was but a young girl, her beauty and her
wonderful talents, added to her high station, made her conspicuous among
her countrywomen, and her hand was often sought in marriage even by
reigning princes. Both the Duke of Savoy and the Duke of Braganza
desired to marry her, and the pope was even persuaded to plead their
cause; but all to no avail, as she had long considered her future
settled and had no desire to change it. At the age of seventeen they
celebrated their wedding, and their life together, which began with that
moment, was never marred by a single discordant note.
The first four years of their married life were spent on the island of
Ischia, where Pescara had a villa and a small estate, and there they
lived in an idyllic happiness which has almost become proverbial. The
young husband was not so studiously inclined as was his gifted wife, but
he was a manly fellow, much given to athletic pursuits, and with a
decided taste for a military career, and Vittoria was loved by him in a
most tender and noble fashion. They were denied the happiness of
children, and the young wife expresses her sorrow over this fact in her
twenty-second sonnet; but she consoles herself by adding: "since it is
not given to me to be the mother of sons who shall inherit their
father's glory, at least may I be able, by uniting my name with his in
verse, to become the mother of his great deeds and lofty fame." After
their long honeymoon had come to an end, Pescara was moved to return to
the world, or rather to enter it for the first time as a man, and he
entered the imperial army. At the age of twenty-one, as a general of
cavalry, he took part in the battle of Ravenna, where he was made a
prisoner of war. After a year's detention, however, he was allowed to
return to his post, and then followed campaigning in various parts of
the peninsula. Vittoria, during all these days of absence, had remained
quietly in their island home at Ischia, where she devoted her time to
the composition of those sonnets in honor of her husband's glorious
deeds which have since brought her such lasting reputation. In token of
her fidelity and her general attitude toward the world and society at
this time, Vittoria had adopted as her device a small Cupid within the
circlet of a twisted snake, and under it was the significant motto:
_Quem peperit virtus prudentia servet amorem_ [Discretion shall guard
the love which virtue inspired]. The soldier-husband came for a hasty
visit to Ischia whenever distances and the varying fortunes of war made
it possible; but his stays were brief, and he always wore in his wife's
eyes that romantic halo which it was but natural that a poetic woman
should throw about the head of a young and brilliant general whose
handsome features and noble carriage made him none the less attractive,
and who happened at the same time to be her husband.
After a somewhat short but notable career as a soldier, Pescara was
given entire command of the imperial armies, and he it was who directed
the fortunes of the day during that memorable battle of Pavia when King
Francis I. of France was captured, and when the illustrious French
knight "without fear and without reproach," the Chevalier Bayard, made
that remark which has long since become historic, _Tout est perdu fors
l'honneur_. That battle won, and with such credit to himself, Pescara
was loaded with praise and rewards, and, as is often the case under such
circumstances, he was subjected to some temptations. His power had
become so great, and his military skill was considered so remarkable,
that efforts were made to entice him from the imperial service; he was
actually offered the crown of the kingdom of Naples in case he would be
willing to renounce his allegiance to Charles V. The offer tempted him,
and he hesitated for a moment, writing to his wife to ascertain her
opinion on the subject. It is clear that he wavered in his duty, but his
excuse to Vittoria was that he longed to see her on a throne which she
could grace indeed. She, however, without a moment's hesitation, wrote
to him to remain faithful to his sovereign, saying, in a letter cited
by Giambattista Rota: "I do not desire to be the wife of a king, but
rather of that great captain who, by means of his valor in war and his
nobility of soul in time of peace, has been able to conquer the greatest
monarchs." Pescara, obedient to his wife's desire, immediately began to
free himself from the temptations which had been besetting his path, but
he had gone so far upon this dangerous road that he was able to turn
aside from it only after his hitherto untarnished honor had been
sullied. The criticism which he received at this time made him
melancholy, and, weakened by wounds received at the battle of Pavia,
which now broke out again, he soon came to his end at Milan, at the age
of thirty-five. Though she was for a long time stunned by her grief,
Vittoria finally accepted her sorrow with some degree of calmness.
Back she then went to Ischia, where they had passed those earlier days
together, and there, for seven years almost without interruption, she
spent her time thinking of the dead lord of Pescara, and extolling him
in her verse. Still young and beautiful, it was but natural that her
grief might be controlled in time and that she might again find
happiness in married life. Distinguished princes pleaded with her in
vain, and even her brothers urged her to this course, which, under the
circumstances, they considered entirely within the bounds of propriety;
but to them all she gave the calm assurance that her noble husband,
though dead to others, was still alive for her and constantly in her
thoughts. After the first period of her grief had passed, she found
herself much drawn toward spiritual and religious thoughts, and then it
was that her poetry became devotional in tone and sacred subjects were
now her only inspiration. Roscoe mentions the fact that she was at this
time suspected of sympathizing in secret with the reformed doctrines in
religion which were then making such headway in the North and playing
such havoc with the papal interests, but there seems little ground for
this suspicion beyond the fact that her devotion to the things of the
spirit and her somewhat austere ideas in regard to manners and morals
were in that day so unusual as to call forth comment. This sacred verse
was published in a volume entitled _Rime spirituali_, and Guingene is
authority for the statement that no other author before Vittoria Colonna
had ever published a volume of poetry devoted exclusively to religious
themes.
Her most faithful friend and admirer in all her long widowhood of
twenty-two years was the great artist, sculptor, and painter, Michael
Angelo, who never failed to treat her with the tenderest courtesy and
respect. No other woman had ever touched his heart, and she gave him
suggestion and inspiration for much of his work. After those first seven
years of loneliness at Ischia, Vittoria spent much time in the convents
of Orvieto and Viterbo, and later she lived in the greatest seclusion at
Rome; there it was that death overtook her. Wherever she went, Michael
Angelo's thoughtfulness followed her out, and in those last moments at
Rome he was with her, faithful to the end. He was the kindly, rugged
master-genius of his time, an intellectual giant, and she was a woman of
rare devotion and purity of soul; and the real Platonic affection which
seems to have possessed them, in that age of license and scepticism, is
touching and impressive. What this friendship meant to him, the poet has
expressed in the following sonnet addressed to Vittoria, which is here
given in Wordsworth's matchless translation:
"Yes! hope may with my strong desire keep pace,
And I be undeluded, unbetrayed;
For if of our affections none find grace
in sight of Heaven, then, wherefore had God made
The world which we inhabit? Better plea
Love cannot have than that in loving thee
Glory to that eternal peace is paid,
Who such divinity to thee imparts
As hallows and makes pure all gentle hearts.
His hope is treacherous only whose love dies
With beauty, which is varying every hour:
But in chaste hearts, uninfluenced by the power
Of outward change, there blooms a deathless flower,
That breathes on earth the air of Paradise."
The ducal court at Ferrara became, in the latter half of the sixteenth
century, the centre of much intellectual life and brilliancy; generous
patronage was extended to the arts and to literature, and here gathered
together a company which rivalled in splendor the court of Urbino in the
days of the Countess Elizabetta. The duke, Alfonso II., son of that
unfortunate Renee, daughter of Louis XII. of France, who had been kept
in an Italian prison for twelve long years because of her suspected
sympathy with the reformed doctrines, came of a long line of princes who
had in the past given liberally to the cause of learning. During his
reign, which covers the period from 1559 to 1597, the social side of
court life in his dukedom came into special prominence. The two sisters
of Alfonso--Lucrezia and Leonora--presided over this court, and to it
came, from time to time, many of the most beautiful women of Italy.
Tarquinia Moeza was there, a woman of beauty and of rare poetic gifts;
Lucrezia Bendidio, beautiful and accomplished, and having constantly
about her a most admiring throng of poets and literati; and later came
the two acknowledged beauties of the day, Leonora di Sanvitali, Countess
of Scandiano, and her no less charming mother-in-law, Barbara, Countess
of Sala. Among the men of this company, suffice it to mention the name
of the poet Guarini, whose fame has become enduring on account of his
charming and idyllic drama, _Il pastor fido_, for he it is who seems to
embody that sprightliness of wit which gave to Ferrara at that time its
gladsome reputation.
To this court there came, for the first time, in the year 1565, young
Torquato Tasso, poet and courtier, scholar and gentleman, and already
the author of a published narrative poem, the _Rinaldo_, which caused
him to be hailed as the most promising poet of his generation when he
was but in his eighteenth year. Bernardo Tasso, the poet's father, was
likewise a poet and a professional courtier of some distinction, and
varying fortunes had taken him to Urbino, where the son Torquato grew
up, surrounded by all the evidences of refinement and culture. He had
been favored by nature with a tall and commanding figure, and his good
looks had already caused more than one gentle heart to flutter, when, at
the age of twenty-one, with his father's consent and approval, he
entered the service of the Cardinal Luigi d'Este, and became at once a
conspicuous figure in court circles. Almost instantly the youth, filled
as he was with most romantic ideas and readily susceptible to the power
of woman's beauty, fell a captive to the charms of the Princess Leonora
d'Este, who, though some ten years his senior, seemed to embody all the
graces and to completely satisfy the ideal which up to this time he had
been able to see only with his mind's eye. Leonora had already been
sought in marriage by many titled suitors, but she had invariably turned
a deaf ear to such proposals, never finding one who could please her
fancy or who promised comfort in her loneliness. For she was lonely in
that court, as she seems to have dwelt in a sort of spiritual isolation
most of the time; there was always a melancholy air about her, which had
no doubt been induced in large measure by her mother's sad fate. For
Tasso to love her was most natural; but they both knew that such a love
could be but hopeless, and it cannot be said that she encouraged him in
any covert manner or that he made open profession of his passion. It is
true that he makes her the subject of many of his poems, wherein he
lauds her to the skies, but this is no more than was expected of a court
poet; he did the same for other ladies, but in all that was dedicated to
her charms there seems to shine forth a truer light of real affection
than is found in all the others. What words of affection, if any, passed
between them can never be known; but it seems that there must have been
some sort of tacit consent to his silent adoration, and Tasso tells in a
madrigal, perhaps in proof of this, that once, when he had asked her
pardon for having put his arm upon her own in the eagerness of
conversation, she replied, with gentleness: "You offended, not by
putting your arm there, but by taking it away!"
For twelve years Tasso remained at Ferrara, constantly writing sonnets
and short poems of all descriptions, which were most often addressed to
Leonora, but at the same time he was busily working upon that longer
poem in epic form, descriptive of the First Crusade, the _Gerusalemme
liberata_, wherein he puts a new feeling into Italian poetry, which had
been expressed before by Ariosto in his amatory verse, but which cannot
be found to any great extent in his more pretentious work, the _Orlando
Furioso_. This new feeling was real sentiment, and not sentimentality,
and it denotes the growing conception of the worth and dignity of
womanhood which we have already discovered in the poetry of Michael
Angelo. Allowing for the infinite contradictions possible in human
nature, it may be that these men of the same time, who so coolly killed
their wives and sisters for acts of infidelity, were touched in some dim
way with the same feeling, to which, alas! they gave but sorry
expression, if the surmise be true.
The constant excitement of the court and his unending literary labors
commenced to tell upon the poet in 1575, when his health began to fail
and he grew irritable and restless, became subject to delusions, fancied
that he had been denounced by the Inquisition, and was in daily terror
of being poisoned. Then it was said that the poet was mad, and there are
some who have whispered that it was his unrequited love for the Princess
Leonora which brought about this calamity. However that may be, the
climax was reached in the year 1577, when Tasso, in the presence of
Lucrezia d'Este,--who was then Duchess of Urbino,--drew a knife upon one
of his servants. For this he was arrested, but soon after was given his
liberty on condition that he should go to a Franciscan monastery and
give himself that rest and attention which his failing health demanded.
Here, however, he was beset with the idea that the duke sought to take
his life, and he fled in disguise to his sister, who was then living at
Sorrento. Various explanations have been given for this sudden flight,
and some biographers have insinuated that the duke had discovered some
hidden intrigue between his sister Leonora and Tasso which had caused
the latter to fear for his safety. This supposition cannot be accepted
as true, however, for if the duke had known or had even strongly
suspected such a thing he would have promptly put the poet to death
without compunction, and such a course of action would have been
entirely justified by the public sentiment of the time. And if this
supposition were true, is it probable that Tasso would have been allowed
to return to Ferrara in a short time, as he did? Now, begins a confused
life, and the poet comes and goes, moved by a strange restlessness,
never happy away from Ferrara, yet never caring to stay there long.
Finally, on one occasion he thought himself so neglected at his return
that he made a most violent scene, and became so bitter and incoherent
in his complaints that he was pronounced insane and imprisoned by order
of the duke. There he remained for seven years, and the most of that
time he was in a well-lighted and well-furnished room, where he was
allowed to receive visitors and devote himself to literary work whenever
he so desired. At the end of this time, in which Tasso himself speaks of
his mental disorder, he went to Mantua, where he had been invited by the
Prince Vincenzo Gonzaga; there he spent a few pleasant months; but he
soon grew discontented, the roaming fit came upon him again, and after a
number of years of pitiful endeavor he finally died, in 1595, at the
convent of Saint Onofrio.
It does not seem just to blame the Princess Leonora d'Este for the sad
fate which befell Tasso, as so many have done, for there is no proof of
any unkindness on her part. That he loved her there can be but little
doubt, but hardly to the verge of madness, as he wrote love sonnets to
other ladies at the same time; the truth seems to be that he became
mentally unbalanced as the result of the precocious development of his
powers, which made a man of him while yet a boy and developed in him an
intensity of feeling which made his candle of life burn fiercely, but
for a short time only. His end was but the natural consequence of the
beginning, and whether Leonora helped or hindered in the final result,
it matters not, for she was blameless. She died in the second year of
Tasso's imprisonment, sad at heart as she had ever been, never deeply
touched by the poet's constant praises, and to the end a victim to that
melancholy mood which had come upon her in childhood.