THE KNIGHT LIONARDO SALVIATI.
Essendo di fortuna e d'ingegno meno che mediocre, mi sento non
dimanco avere dalla natura un bene particolare ed egregio, nel
quale io mi sento tanto superiore a molti, quanto quasi di ogni
uomo in tutte le altre cose mi conosco più basso. Questa è una
cotal mirabile inclinazione, ed una come natural conoscenza
ch'io ho nella amicizia.... Io sono a questa parte quasi rapito
dallo Dio del mio ingegno.
SALVIATI, _Dialogo dell' Amicizia_.
Although I am less than mediocre both in fortune and talents,
yet I feel that nature has gifted me with a particular and lofty
blessing, in which I feel myself so much superior to others, as
I know myself in almost everything else inferior to all other
men. This is a wonderful inclination, and natural knowledge
which I have in friendship.... I feel in this respect almost
exalted by the god of my genius....
SALVIATI, _Dialogue on Friendship_.
As poets sometimes describe a pensive maiden straying by the margin
of a brook, plucking the leaves from a rose, scattering them to the
mercy of the current, and watching the wave that carries them away,
so Isabella, with her cheek resting on her hand, her eyes closed,
mused upon the dear remembrances borne down upon the stream of time.
Where was her innocence? Where her youthful affections? Where the
serene purity of her mind? The tree of life, that once appeared so
fresh with perpetual verdure, now how horribly bare! And the few
leaves that remain, rustle drily, and are ready to fall with the
slightest wind that blows. Of Cosimo's daughters, she alone is left;
Mary died at seventeen for love; Lucretia, perhaps through the same
cause, disappeared from the world at twenty-one. Love had been a star
of evil auspice for the women of the Medici family! The dear boy, Don
Garcia, had abandoned her, and she could never think of him without
her imagination depicting the angelic face, that wished to speak to
her but could not, and tried to sign to her with his head, while his
hair, dripping with blood, stained his beautiful face. God knows
how this thought pierced her heart! For the report of the domestic
tragedy had reached her ears, but her frightened soul shrank in
horror at believing it true. Her father, Cosimo, whom, however severe
or cruel towards his other children, she had found kind, was still
young when he left this world, and although in dying he left her,
as manifest tokens of his love, seven thousand dollars, a palace,
three thousand dollars upon the Pisan estates, gardens and houses in
Florence, and jewels worth a treasure, all this abundance of wealth
had not served to procure her one friend in whom to confide, or from
whom to seek counsel.
She could not depend upon Cardinal Ferdinando, as he had left his
home at an early age, and, obliged to live in Rome, had there placed
his heart and thoughts; or if his mind ever turned towards his home,
it was through pride, or through desire of royalty, for which he
was so eager that, in process of time, being exalted to the Tuscan
throne, he took for coat of arms the King of the bees, with the
motto: _Majestate tantum_. Besides which, she had but little reason
to consider him kindly-disposed towards her, as she had, in times
past, rather favored than opposed the intrigue of Don Francesco with
Bianca; but perceiving that this passion was taking deep root, and
might become a source of great trouble, she had endeavored to repair
her fault, by thwarting it to the utmost of her power, which only
excited against her the bitter hatred of Francesco and the vengeance
of Bianca, and did not succeed, on the other hand, in restoring to
her the friendship of Cardinal Ferdinando, much less that of Queen
Giovanna, her sister-in-law.
Giovanna, a very pious woman, was still a woman wounded in her
dearest affections as wife and mother, and in the pride of her noble
lineage, seeing a Venetian adventuress preferred to her, the daughter
of an Emperor, and by birth the Queen of Hungary and Bohemia. This
grief, which continually tormented her mind and preyed upon her
health, at last rendered her so eager for revenge in any form, that,
happening one evening, in crossing the bridge of the Santa Trinità,
to meet Bianca, she ordered the carriage to stop, and commanded her
guards to throw her enemy into the Arno; and if it had not been for
Count Eliodoro Bastigli, a very worthy nobleman, who begged her
to consider how unbecoming such an act would be to a Queen and a
Christian, adding also that she should leave her cause to God, and
offer her sorrows as an expiation for her sins, that would have been
the last day of Bianca's life, since the guards, not very scrupulous
about such matters, were on the point of laying violent hands upon
her. Still this poor Giovanna could not so entirely conquer herself
as not to hate mortally every one who had contributed to alienate her
husband from her; among these, she suspected, and not unjustly, that
Isabella stood first; and for this reason, and also that they were of
natures, of desires, habits, and pursuits, not only different, but
entirely incompatible with each other, there was no evil that she did
not wish her; and although she repented and confessed her ill-will,
nevertheless, weak human nature prevailing in her, she hated her
worse than before.
As to Don Pietro, hardened to every kind of vice, forgetful not only
of princely dignity, but even of what belonged to a man, Isabella
could place as little reliance upon him. Alas! in so much sorrow,
she found herself alone! No one could aid her with counsel or help.
Bitter thoughts now took possession of her, and these thoughts left
their trace in a furrow upon her brow and a wound in her heart, such
as God alone could heal, or death steep in oblivion.
Lelio, opening the door of the saloon, announced:
"The illustrious knight, Lionardo Salviati, desires to see your
Ladyship."
"Lionardo Salviati!" she exclaimed, and then added to herself, "God
surely sends him to me."
And Salviati entered, introduced with due ceremony.
There is no help for it:--according to established rule I should
immediately make these two persons speak, and endeavor to invent
a vivid, strong, and pointed dialogue, that the interest of the
narrative might not flag. In narratives or dramas, all that prevents
the action from progressing freely towards its end, is to be
reprehended; the different parts ought all to converge towards the
_denouement_, like so many straight lines, for a straight line, as
we all know, is the shortest distance between two points. And the
good Guizot reminds those who may have forgotten it, of this maxim,
when, being ambassador in London, he allowed no other device to be
engraved on his plate than a straight line, with the motto: _Linea
recta brevissima_; whence he derived in France the title of Cato, and
in Paris they made illuminations and bonfires about it. Does it not
seem as if in France it is very easy to acquire the title of Cato?
Whoever holds the above opinion is right, but I cannot abstain from
infringing on the rule. How many times has it happened to you, my
amiable lady-readers, to "Know the right, and yet the wrong pursue?"
And then, I am beginning to grow old, and old age is garrulous.
Moreover, when I took a fancy to narrate these and other events in
the form of dramatic narratives, I designed, following the dictates
of such rules, to let you know all the particulars I could give in
regard to the persons and the times of which my story might treat.
In fact (I do not say it to all, but to the greater number of you,
my beloved lady-readers), who would give you such information, if I
did not? Now that we are, as it were, _en famille_, confess whether
you would ever have had the time and patience requisite to gather
it from the folio and quarto volumes in which I found it? Heavy and
worm-eaten books, which would contaminate the fairness of your white
kid gloves, with a trace of dust not less horrible to behold than
the blood upon the side of Adonis. Allow me then to speak in my own
way; be a little gracious to me, for I profess myself entirely yours,
and _kneeling with the knees of my mind_,[2] honor you as much
as I possibly can. Perhaps I shall not weary you; but should I be
disappointed in this hope, the remedy lies in your own power; you can
do what, in a similar case, Ludovico Ariosto advises:--
"Let him who will, pass pages three or four,
Not reading,"[3]
for the history would not be marred by your so doing, nor would it
proceed less intelligibly.
[2] Con le ginocchia della mente inchine.
[3]
Passi chi vuol, tre carte, o quattro, senza
Leggerne verso.
Who then was, and whence came this illustrious Sir Lionardo
Salviati?
Sir Lionardo was the child of Giovanbattista di Lionardo
Salviati, and Ginevra di Carlo Antonio Corbinelli. His family
had often been at enmity with the family of the Medici. Cardinal
Salviati conspired with the Pazzi to destroy it root and branch.
The attempt failed, and they hung him from the window of the
Palazzo della Signoria, just as they found him, in his episcopal
robes. This circumstance by no means interrupted the good
friendship, much less the good relationship of the two families;
and one Salviati was father-in-law of Lorenzo the Magnificent,
brother-in-law of Pope Leo X., and great-grandfather of the Grand
Duke Cosimo, who was the son of Maria di Jacopo Salviati, so that
Lionardo might be considered a relation of Isabella. Lionardo
(although it could not well be said at that time, but can with
perfect propriety be mentioned now) was scarcely two years older
than Isabella, and they had been educated together, so that
he had always loved her tenderly, as though she had been a
sister. Of a delicate constitution, and gifted by nature with an
amiable disposition, he was ill adapted for the violent knightly
exercises of the times, and gave himself up entirely to the study
of belles lettres and philosophy. His countenance was pale, his
beard thin, his expression sad; his lungs were delicate, yet he
had a strong voice; his pronunciation was so clear and sweet as
to attract attention; and modulating his speech more like that
of a petitioner than a commander, he easily drew to himself the
ears and minds of those who listened to him. The Grand Duke
Cosimo had conferred upon him the Order of St. Stefano, and he,
accustomed to view matters superficially, wore the red cross
devoutly upon his breast, fully convinced that the founder had
no other aim than that of freeing the sepulchre of Christ from
the hands of the dogs (for so were called the Turks in those
times, and they paid us in turn in the same coin). Lionardo was
born when the destinies of the Republic were buried; educated at
court, a relative of the Prince, and well treated by him, he had
never listened to the fiery words of the liberals, of whom some
were wandering in miserable exile, while others had been cut off
either by a natural death, the judicial axe, or the dagger of the
assassin. Having heard them even from his childhood branded as
grumbling, mischievous men, who loved to fish in muddy streams,
and who were the worst enemies of Florence, he had formed the
opinion that Cosimo I. was the true liberator of the country, a
faithful defender and supporter of the public safety,--a man, in
short, of great worth, to be preferred to the ancients, rather
than compared to the moderns. Add to this, that his vanity as
writer was fully satisfied by Cosimo, who "made a pretence of
patronizing men of letters, and showed it sometimes by words
rather than by deeds; for no one of these was helped, honored, or
supported by him, except in a slight degree."[4] And in truth,
when Lionardo recited the oration in honor of his coronation,
Cosimo said to him, without the slightest approach to a smile,
"that among his other reasons for prizing the dignity which he
had received, was this most worthy and lofty oration which had
followed it,"[5] as if Cosimo, who had no more faith in white
than in black, was a man to pay attention to such nonsense;
but he did so to acquire renown at a cheap rate, or because he
knew how much literary men love flattery, for if they often
make vapory speeches, they oftener still are fed on wind. And
certainly it was not Lionardo's fault if, through his writings,
Cosimo was not famous in the memory of posterity, since he let no
opportunity escape of exalting him to the skies with all manner
of praises.
[4] Segni, vol. ii., p 337.
[5] Essay on the Knight L. Salviati, read before the Florentine
Academy by Pier F. Cambi.
But with what reason or justice can we reproach Lionardo Salviati,
when other famous writers spoke even more openly and unblushingly?
We shall mention only Bernardo Davanzati, whom the translation of
Tacitus ought to have inspired with the example, if not of his
boldness, at least of his modesty, but who did not hesitate to
declare from the pulpit, that "Cosimo's elevation was indeed a Divine
dispensation," he having acquired rule, which is the most desirable
and supreme of all blessings, called to it by his fellow-citizens'
love, the means of all others the most just and holy, who,
recognising the virtue of his heart and mind, unanimously elected
him Prince in an heroic and natural manner. Siena, under his mild
and lenient government, might say, like Themistocles, flying to
Persia: "Woe to me if I had not lost, for then I should have been
lost!" He recalled all the exiles to their homes, and restored to
them their property; mild, benign, pious, most merciful, diligent in
providing food that the people might not suffer famine, always eager
to diminish the public taxes, and so solicitous for justice, that
he loved it better than himself, of which he gave a manifest proof,
when, while the war against Pietro Strozzi was raging, he prayed "God
to give victory not to himself, but to him whose intentions were the
best, and whose cause was the most just."[6] If then, I say, writers
who were neither relatives nor friends did not shrink from such and
similar enormities, we cannot well reproach Lionardo if he ignored,
or wished to ignore, the arms prepared by Cardinal Cibo, the perfidy
of Francesco Vettori, of Roberto Acciaiuoli, of Matteo Strozzi, of
the worst of all of them Francesco Guicciardini, the terrors spread,
the violences committed, and the night of January 8, 1537, when,
Cosimo being present, it was decided between the above mentioned
persons, and Alessandro Vitelli, to elect Cosimo Duke, and if it were
necessary, even to use force; and the morning of the 9th, when amidst
the shouts of the soldiers who cried: "Hurra for the Duke and the
Medici!"--and the threats of Vitelli, who swore "that if the Senators
did not hasten to elect Cosimo, they would be all dead men," he was
_unanimously_ elected Duke.
[6] Bernardo Davanzati. Oration on the Death of Cosimo.
Cosimo had promised Guicciardini that he would allow himself to
be guided by him entirely; but for this once the intriguer was
over-reached, and, strange as it may seem, by a youth of eighteen,
who had promised also to marry Guicciardini's daughter, but the
latter had not even the courage to remind him of it, and died
overwhelmed with self-reproaches and the contempt of others.
It is the duty of an historian (but I am a poor novelist), it is the
duty of every honest man to relate the good deeds of which human
nature is justly proud. Benedetto Varchi, in the fifteenth book of
his Histories, fearlessly narrates a noble act; first of all, he
mentions that on the night preceding the _unanimous_ election of
Cosimo, it was resolved in a very secret conclave, that he should
be elected Duke _by any means, even if it involved the necessity
of using force_; and then relates an anecdote of the good Palla
Rucellai, who boldly said that he no longer wished in the Republic
either Princes or Dukes, and to prove that his deeds were consistent
with his words, he took the black ball, and showing it to all, threw
it into the ballot-box, exclaiming: "_This is my vote._" Then when
Guicciardini and Vettori reproved him for this, observing that his
ball could count only for one, he replied: "_If you had decided
beforehand what you intended to do, there was no need of calling
me_;" and he rose to depart; but Cardinal Cybo detained him with
cunning mildness, and endeavored to frighten him with the show of the
surrounding arms, and representing the danger which he might incur;
but the brave man, not at all startled, replied: "_Sir Cardinal, I
am already more than sixty-two years old, so that now they can do
me but very little harm._" These are magnanimous examples, which
can never be remembered or praised enough; and as many times as I
consider that Benedetto Varchi wrote these histories by order of
Cosimo, and read them to him, and that he listened to them without
showing any resentment, I feel forced to conclude, that men capable
of telling the truth seem to me even more rare than Princes capable
of listening to it, and that _adulation is oftener the cowardice of
courtiers than the requisition of Princes_.
Behold how joyful Siena was! Of the thirty thousand souls which it
contained before the war, hardly ten thousand remained; what with the
misery, the battles, and painful massacres which he who wishes can
find described in the Diary of Sozzini, or the narratives of Roffia,
fifty thousand peasants perished, without enumerating those who took
refuge in foreign lands. The country was deserted, the cultivation of
the fields entirely neglected, and manufactures destroyed, so that
Siena feels the consequences of it, even to this day. And as Tacitus
says: "They make a desert and they call it peace."
Scipione Ammirato, either through conscientious scruples or horror
unwilling to betray the truth, and equally unwilling to displease
the Medicis, by whose orders he was writing, bethought himself of
the expedient of leaving a hiatus in his history, which resembles
the veil painted by Timanthes before the face of Agamemnon, in the
sacrifice of Iphigenia. Bernardo Segni, on the contrary, in the
histories which were published after his death, described this infamy
of Siena, saying in conclusion: "They surrendered to the Duke, after
having lost all their dominions, destroyed all their property, and
the lives of almost all the men of that city and province."
As regards provisions, ten times there was a scarcity, and three
times it was so great that people starved to death; nor in small
numbers, for in the famine of 1554, over sixty thousand people died
in Florence and throughout the state.[7]
[7] Segni, History; books 14 and 15.
That he was mild and merciful, let certain extracts from manuscripts
in the Magliabecchian and Riccardian libraries testify, from which
we learn that in a very few years one hundred and thirty of the
principal citizens of Florence were declared rebels; most of those
who fell into his hands were either hung or beheaded; some were sent
to the prisons or galleys; several assassinated; the property of all
of them was confiscated, and even the dowries of the women. On most
of the petitions imploring the life of some rebel, Cosimo inscribed
with his own hand: "_Let him be hung._"[8] I have read somewhere,
that he retained one thousand assassins in his employ; nor were they
all plebeians, but some of them people of good standing; he himself
was personally the executioner of several, since, not to mention his
son, Don Garcia, no historian denies that he killed with his own hand
Sforza Almeni of Perugia, "allowing, however," adds Aldo Manuzio,
"the property of the murdered man to go to his heirs, and fulfilling
his will as expressed in a certain document which was found in his
pocket." Does not this seem to you the act of a most benign Prince!
[8] Manuzio; Life of Cosimo dei Medici.
As to the prayer made to God in the war with Strozzi, that He
would give the victory to the righteous cause, we find testimonies
respecting it in his commission to the Bishop of Cortona, who was
sent to France under the pretext of paying his respects to the Queen,
but in reality to corrupt the servants of Piero Strozzi, so that
they might administer to their master the poison which he himself
took to them in a vial, whereby he acquired the nickname of Bishop
of the Vial,[9] and also in the letter written to Captain Giovanni
Orandini, preserved in the Annal XII. of the Colombaria, in which we
read the following words, in regard to the order to assassinate Piero
Strozzi: "Hence going to Siena, either by a gunshot, or in whatever
other way may seem best to you, rid us of the arrogance of this man;
in return for which, we can promise ten thousand crowns in cash, and
our protection, besides honors and emoluments."[10] Consequently it
behoves us to confess that if he trusted much in God, he trusted
even more in gunshots, or rather, that if it is true that he invoked
the name of God, it was because he who is accustomed to deceive men,
rises at last to such a degree of folly as to believe that he can
even deceive God. And in reference also to his moderation in imposing
taxes upon the people, let the following extract from an impartial
historian suffice: "He oppressed the citizens and subjects with
unheard of taxes, doubling the old, and adding new ones; in managing
the state, he has in a great measure ruined the honor and property of
his native place, and Tuscany."[11]
[9] Ammirato. Florence Edition, 1827. Last volume.
[10] Aldo Manuzio.
[11] Segni's History, pp. 159, 184. Ed. of Milan.
He was indeed pious too, for after Scarperia had been destroyed,
and Florence threatened by an earthquake, and the Palazzo della
Signoria had been seven times struck by lightning in one day, he
issued several decrees against blasphemy and other sins; and in
addition to this, with a praiseworthy readiness, no sooner had he
received the letter of Pius V., requesting him to consign Monsignor
Pietro Carnesecchi to the Master of the Inquisition, accompanied
by a recommendation from the Cardinal Pacheco (who mentioned to
Cosimo that he had praised him before the Pope for two things, viz.
that there was no prince in all Christendom more zealous for the
Inquisition than he, and that there was nothing that the Pontiff's
pleasure desired that he would not be willing to do), than without
any delay, for Carnesecchi was in his own house, nay, even seated
at his own dinner-table, he had him arrested and consigned to
the Master. This violation of the duties of hospitality and the
ties of friendship, for Carnesecchi had always been well disposed
towards the house of the Medicis, and had long served Clement VII.
as prothonotary, and Cosimo as secretary in Venice--this sacrifice
of a man celebrated for his goodness and learning by Sadoleto,
by Bembo, by Mureto, and by Manuzio, although Ammirato, eager to
depreciate the importance of the man, calls him _not an ignorant
person_--this sacrifice, I say, deserved a proportionate reward,
which, if we do not find openly promised, is clearly enough hinted
at in the following words from the letter of June 19th, 1566,
from Cardinal Pacheco to Cosimo: "Be then assured, that the good
relation which your Excellency will hold with the Pope during this
pontificate, will in a great measure depend upon this." In fact,
Pietro Carnesecchi was decapitated and burned as an heretic on the 3d
of October, 1567; and Cosimo was, by sanction of the Pope, crowned
Grand Duke, with the privilege of wearing the royal crown, on the 4th
of March, 1569. Carnesecchi suffered death with wonderful constancy,
even with some ostentation of fortitude, for he dressed himself
in his choicest garments and white gloves; but was Cosimo equally
tranquil, when he closed his eyes in "that sleep which knows no
waking?"
Notwithstanding these facts, known then by what has been before
mentioned, and at the present day by being printed in history, I, for
my part, would forgive the magnificent Knight Salviati for praising
Cosimo and lauding to the skies his mercy, his valor, his prowess,
and clemency, placing him before Augustus, since the latter had to
use proscription, while the former had not; although Cosimo himself
was contented to resemble Augustus, under whose constellation, which
was Capricornus, his astrologer Don Basilio assured him that he was
born; but a fault for which neither I nor any one else can pardon
Salviati is the following sentence, which, since I shudder to put my
hands upon it, I shall report as it is written:
"They who refuse the government of their country or republic, when
offered to them, have given manifest proof, not only of the cowardice
of their minds, but of impiety and arrogance. Of cowardice, I say,
failing in courage, and refusing honors and governments, which are
very desirable; of impiety, if, knowing themselves capable, they have
denied their services to their country; of arrogance, if, thinking
themselves incompetent, they have preferred their own opinion of
themselves to the judgment of their country."
Ah! Sir Lionardo, what sad reasoning is this! How sophistical,
cunning, and entirely unworthy of a grave man does it sound! How
far did the evil genius of lying flattery carry you! Would it seem
honest to you if any one should accept the gifts of a crazy man?
Much more if they are gifts which ought not to be made, and such is
the liberty of one's own country, which cannot be alienated, for
it is derived from God, and belongs to Him; it is not peculiar to
any, but appertains to all generations; and the present generation,
disinheriting posterity of it, as an enemy of its own race commits
an unlawful act. Is a physician arrogant when he does not neglect
the disease of a sick man, but mercifully cures him? The people,
when wearied of their own dignity, crouch on the ground like the
camel, entreating some one to ride them (even if they are not driven
to it, as is generally the case, by treachery or fraud); in this
condition they can either be cured or not. In the first case they
ought to be cured, and then, if the example of Lycurgus seems too
hard to follow, one ought to adopt that of Solon, or Andrea Doria, or
choose voluntary exile, for a man can ill live as a citizen where he
has ruled as a prince; in the second case, all efforts being of no
avail, let him, like Sylla, throw away the battle-axe, and abandon
them to the wrath of God. Such at least ought to be the rule of those
men whom the world calls great, and who, after having departed from
this world, furnish themes for the tongues of orators and the fancy
of poets, and remind us of our divine origin. To no citizen is it
permitted, either by force or by genius, offered or usurped, to take
away the liberty of his country; morality, affection, religion,
especially the Christian religion, all forbid it. Yes, indeed, the
Christian religion, because, rejecting the distinction of St. Thomas
as scholastic, and proposed rather as an abstract disquisition, than
as true in practice, between a tyrant imposed upon us by force, and a
tyrant imposed voluntarily by ourselves, that act is right, which we
can always choose, as Aristotle teaches. Now how can the usurpation
of one's country ever be eligible? As to the usurper, can he or
will he consult from time to time the will of the people? Will he
know, or will he wish to know, if the movement that so exalted him
was truly spontaneous and universal? When it will decline or when
cease? As to the people, may it not be a transient hallucination and
infirmity of the country, since the country consists in the faithful
association of the citizens, to which we consecrate our affection
and reverence, and if needed, our property and our lives; and this
removed, the place in which we live cannot be called our country,
nor deserve such sacrifices. If our country is more than a mother
to us, who is there that could enslave his own mother? If a mother
were to propose it, she should be treated as an insane person, and
not be listened to; and if the son were to accept it, he should be
abhorred as impious. And mark, that such usurpations are usually
surrounded with appearances of free elections; Julius Cæsar himself
ordered that in the Lupercalia he should be presented with a crown.
Moreover, liberty, next to life, is our most precious possession; now
the dearer anything is to us, the less we can presume to make a gift
of it; and if even it could be alienated, can we look upon liberty as
legitimately yielded, if surrendered in a moment of passion, fury,
or error? Finally, let us imagine that the country, when in trouble,
should call upon a citizen to restore it to peace; certainly his
rule is needed until the object be accomplished. Now, either the
citizen is capable of accomplishing the wish of his country or he
is not; if capable, let him fulfil the duty to which he is called,
and then retire; if not capable, he fails in his object, and must
retire. But I, perchance, am endeavoring to demonstrate what does not
need demonstration: what presumption, what folly it is, to prove by
means of arguments what nature and God have engraven in our hearts!
Lionardo Salviati, writing the above-mentioned sentences, did not
perhaps believe them himself; he did it for a show of eloquence, or
rather for rhetorical paradox, and he perceived his error, though too
late to repair it, and was never happy afterwards, but cursed the
hour in which be learned to write prose; dismayed when the truth was
presented to his mind, awe-struck by memories of blood, he begged
God, who mercifully listened to his prayer, to shorten a life so ill
employed in behalf of the truth and of mankind, whom, nevertheless,
he ardently loved.
It remains to be seen how high in literature our Salviati ought to
be ranked, but the nature of this book not allowing it as I could
wish, I will do my best to contract the whole into a short space. He
was a very profound scholar, both in the Greek and Latin languages,
and an excellent master of the Italian; he acquired and treasured
up a much larger amount of learning than he taught or published;
according to the custom of those literati, whom we can compare to
nothing better than a miser's chests; he composed a great deal of
poetry, both grave and gay, which, thank heaven, is at the present
day neither known nor published. At the age of twenty he wrote the
_Dialogue on Friendship_, in which he introduces Girolamo Benivieni
to speak the praises of friendship to Jacopo Salviati and Piero
Ridolfi. The subject might indeed have been an affecting one, as he
feigned that, on account of the loss of his best friend, Pico della
Mirandola, a wonderful youth, called the Phoenix of talents, Girolamo
had determined to starve himself to death; but he afterwards came
to a wiser decision; he changed his grief into joy, imagining that
God had called Pico before his time, as most deserving to share
the rewards of the saints in heaven; but the soulless words, the
pedantic distinctions, the want of imagination and heart excite in
us neither pleasure nor pity, and weariness overcomes us before we
reach the end. His comedies, "_La Spina_" and "_Il Granchio_," are
a mixture made from the fragments left by Plautus and Terence, so
that it is easy to imagine what they are. The usual old match-making
nurses, the usual cheats and blacklegs, credulous old men, impossible
incidents, improbable recognitions, Florentine jests, and heavy
language, so that we wonder how people could take delight in such
representations, which at the present day we should hardly dare to
impose upon them as a penance. As to his five essays upon a sonnet
of Petrarch, we have only to say that they prove rather the extent
of our forefathers' wonderful patience, than the great genius of
the author. His orations, the funeral ones particularly, are really
flowers for the dead. Under the _nom de plume of Infarinato_[12] he
wounded with bitter writings the sorrowful spirit of Torquato Tasso;
but the _Jerusalem_ remains, and the writings of Salviati are read
by no one; and this act injures Salviati both as a writer and as a
man, if indeed even in this, his blind devotion to the house of the
Medicis does not excuse him. He abridged the Decameron of Boccaccio,
but posterity laugh at his abridgment, and wish Boccaccio entire.
However, he had a great veneration for this eminent author, and wrote
three volumes of _Advices_ in regard to the beauty of the language
drawn from the Decameron: these volumes may, even in our own day,
and perhaps now more than ever, be consulted by the students of our
most glorious tongue. The language used by Salviati is pure, but says
nothing; it seems an ornament of a corpse; no ideas, no thought, no
imagination; obliged to avoid the great, which is the truth, he was
compelled to have recourse to the false, and we can already perceive
in him the sad dawn of the sixteenth century. In proof of what I
say, let the following extract from his Oration for the Coronation
of Cosimo I. bear witness:--"These walls, most blessed father, and
these houses, and these temples, seem to burn with the desire to
present themselves before the feet of your Holiness, and this river,
and these shores, and these mountains seem to desire feet in order to
come to you, and these seas, and this heaven, a tongue to speak, and,
if unable to tell all that is in their hearts, at least to thank you,
and personally to acknowledge themselves your debtors for so great
a benefit." Abundant words, no eloquence, epithets, adjectives,
expletives without number, one period intermingled by so many other
periods intermingling again among themselves, that the elocution
is confused, difficult, entangled, and, above all, painful. Parini
thought that he might be read with advantage; I, except the _Advices_
already mentioned, do not think so; and Annibale Caro, although
somewhat inclined to the same opinion regarding Salviati, let it be
clearly understood that he did not consider his style commendable,
for it was exceedingly verbose, wandered uncertainly, was full of
meaningless epithets, of long periods, and of many more sentences
than were necessary for clearness of expression, which engenders
confusion, and wearies the listeners.
[12] All the Academicians of _La Crusca_ took some _nom de
plume_, by which they were always known.
In short, Sir Lionardo was neither a good citizen nor a powerful
writer, and yet a man of excellent natural disposition, affectionate
to his friends, and most eager for their welfare. Some will think it
impossible that one individual could be the best of men and yet a bad
citizen; but if there is any contradiction we see it in nature, and I
could mention modern examples if propriety allowed.
* * * * *
Lionardo, entering the room, first took good care to ascertain that
the page had closed the door, then drew a screen before it, and
advanced smilingly towards Isabella, extending his hand. But Isabella
rushed impulsively towards him, and placing her hand on his shoulder,
and leaning her head upon his breast, exclaimed:
"O my good and noble Lionardo, you at least have not forgotten your
Isabella."
Lionardo, confused and deeply moved by such an exhibition of feeling,
replied:
"My dear lady Isabella, how or why should I have forgotten you?"
They stood thus for a little while, and then seating themselves upon
the couch, Isabella, looking in his face, continued:
"It is so long since we have seen each other; and you look ill.
Lionardo, such excess of study injures you."
"O Isabella," said Lionardo, "my trouble is here," and he struck his
heart, "and I pray God daily that He will call me to His holy peace,
and it seems as if He most mercifully was beginning to listen to me.
But let us not talk of myself--I do not come here on my own account,
your ladyship. Now I pray you to hear what I have to say, as if I
were a brother. So long as I knew you to be, if not happy, at least
safe, I kept far from you. I might have wished you to remain happy,
because," and here he lowered his voice, "true happiness consists
in a life of virtue; but my endeavors have been useless, as well as
the admonitions of Cosimo, your father, who often warned you, saying
'Isabella, I shall not live for ever.'"
Isabella, calling up all her womanly pride, interrupted him:
"Sir Lionardo, what are you saying? If I am not mistaken you mean to
offend me."
"Isabella, surely I did not come here for that. Do you believe that
I take pleasure in saying what I do? Do you think that I have spent
my years so uselessly as to hazard imprudent words or worse? Why do
you repulse me? Why dissemble with me? But no matter; I do not ask
the secrets of your heart. If you do not believe me worthy of sharing
them, I consent to remain ignorant. But hear what is said of you;
hear the danger and let us provide a remedy."
"I have done no wrong; who can accuse me? What trace"----
Salviati murmured in her ear, "The trace is outside the gate of
Prato."
"Ah!" cried Isabella frightened, and starting up after a few moments
as if to go away, added, "At least let him be saved."
Lionardo, detaining her by her dress, said, "Stay, we can see to it
better here."
Isabella, shaking her head, tossed her hair with both hands from her
forehead, as if, grown bold by despair, she wished all her shame to
be read there, and murmured--
"Well, I am guilty."
"Isabella, your life is in danger."
"Mine? And by whom? Has Giordano returned from Rome?"
"No. But what has Giordano to do with it?"
"And who but he could with justice attempt my life? Francesco? Would
he punish in another his own sin? Piero? So plunged in every kind of
vice that the waters of the Arno would not suffice to purify him."
"Justice? And do you, a daughter of Cosimo, seek for justice here
below? Francesco hates in others what he indulges in himself. A
doubtful rumor has reached his ears that his enemies, rejoicing as
the wicked do, despise his family, publishing accusations that are
not true, or which, if true, proceed mostly from himself; and in his
dark soul he suspects his Bianca, and wishes to frighten her, that
she may never have a single affection except for him."
"Lionardo, you speak dreadful words, which, though I cannot disprove,
I yet cannot entirely believe. In fact they seem mostly suspicions;
but there is a great difference between thinking a thing and wishing
it, and between wishing and doing it."
"Yes, truly; your relations are accustomed to submit their fierce
passions to reason; but I must undertake the thankless office of
speaking ill of persons whose reputation is dear to you. Isabella,
believe me, upon my soul your life is in danger."
"Lionardo, you who are so wise must understand only too well how in
such important matters man cannot easily be convinced by the belief
of others. You have done much, too much perhaps, to permit you to
deny me the lesser"--
"It is true; and I have come here ready to hazard my life. I do not
ask discretion for myself, I ask it for you, and for one whom I know
you love better than yourself."
"It is well. Speak."
"Yesterday morning early I went to see Don Francesco, who had sent to
ask me about some correction of Boccaccio, which I had undertaken by
his orders. He was in his laboratory. I nevertheless caused myself
to be announced by a valet, who returned shortly, telling me to go
in there, for his Highness would receive me as one of the family
unceremoniously in his study. I found Don Francesco very busy over a
furnace, examining some substance in a glass vial. As soon as he saw
me, he said, 'Good morning and a happy year, cousin Lionardo. I am in
the midst of an experiment which does not seem to succeed very well.
Now I will read your work on the Decameron, which you have corrected
to your own liking, letting the beauties remain and taking away
whatever offends good taste and religion. What a pity that Giovanni
Boccaccio had not good taste! But is there no danger, Lionardo, that
he is utterly lost? Or is it true that before dying he repented and
left the world in the odor of sanctity?' To which question I replied
that the holy Giovanni Colombini, in the life of the holy Pietro
dei Petroni, assures us that the holy Pietro, a little while before
his departure to a better life, sent Giovacchini Ciani to reprove
Boccaccio for his writings and for his bad taste, and at the same
time to reveal certain secrets, so buried in his own memory that he
was very sure that no one but himself knew of them, which so affected
Boccaccio that he bitterly mourned his past errors, and confessing
himself before God made a wonderful repentance. 'Thanks,' replied
Francesco, 'you have given me great consolation in assuring me that
our Giovanni is in a place of safety. Now be kind enough to wait for
me a few minutes while I despatch this business. Go into the library,
you will find a goodly number of books, besides several new ones.' I
entered the library and pretended to read the first book that I took
up, but in reality watched the doings of Francesco. He kept blowing
the fire and looking at the vial; then turning to a little vase
upon the table and taking from it a pinch of powder, he examined it
attentively and said, 'I must confess our ancestors knew more than we
do, or that they pretended to. The color is there; the appearance is
the same; but the taste--the taste--and without doubt there must be
arsenic in it. Yet in the notes of my Poggio, and in the Trivigiana
Chronicle, I find that the Count de Virtù (by my faith that title
seems to fit him well!) poisoned his uncle Bernabo with a poison that
seemed precisely like salt, putting it very naturally upon French
beans; but I have not been able to find it. I would give a thousand
ducats.' Just then a valet entered and announced the High Sheriff.
I know not why, but I began to tremble. I looked around the room to
see if there were any outlet, and perceived a door opening upon the
court-yard. Just as I was on the point of going out, God inspired me
to turn back. I followed the inspiration, as I have always found it
best to do, and began to listen carefully. The Sheriff had entered
and was saying, 'The Knight Antinori, as your Serene Highness knows,
arrived yesterday from Porto Ferraio.'"
"How!" interrupted Isabella, "the Knight Bernardo in Florence without
our knowledge?"
"The Knight Antinori is at this moment in his grave, God have mercy
upon his soul!"
"Holy Mother of God! What do I hear? Are you sure of it, Lionardo?"
"Let me finish. The Sheriff continued: 'We brought him immediately
to the Knight Serguidi, who threatened him terribly for the shame
brought upon his Prince, warning him, should he find him guilty,
that he would leave him to your mercy. But the Knight denied all
steadfastly, until Serguidi produced a letter, saying in a menacing
tone: "Can you deny this?" The Knight, as soon as he saw the paper,
became as white as a sheet; perfectly overwhelmed, he raised his
hands in entreaty, without uttering a word. "Go," added Serguidi,
"you do not deserve pardon." The Knight departed trembling, and went
mechanically towards his house. I followed him with some guards, and
amused myself with watching him.' 'Your usual habit!' interrupted
Francesco; 'give me the bellows; go on, I am listening; tell all, for
I take pleasure in it.' And the Sheriff continued: 'He went as if by
inspiration, for he went towards the palace. When he had reached the
gate of Lions, I advanced and said to him: "Sir, be pleased to allow
me to serve you as major-domo; our most noble master has ordered
lodgings suitable for you to be prepared here." The Knight looked at
me as if in a dream, but let me lead him like a lamb: this morning,
before daybreak, I entered his prison with the chaplain, and he was
sleeping like one enchanted--' 'Was sleeping?' asked Francesco,
lifting up his face, which seemed as if stained with blood, from the
burning coals. 'He was sleeping.' 'He should not have slept.' 'Yet
he did sleep.' 'You let him pass his last night in peace. So it may
be said that he suffered nothing. And I cannot begin over again. Is
it not so?' The Sheriff gave an affirmative nod with his head, and
continued: 'I shook him, and he awoke, and raising himself up into a
sitting posture on the bed, asked: "What is it?" "Rouse yourself for
a moment," I replied to him, "and afterwards you may sleep at your
ease; here is a priest; you have but one hour to live."' 'And what
did he say?' said Francesco. 'He replied: "May God's will be done."'
'What! did he say that?' 'He did.' 'But have they no fear of death?'
'It seems that you have accustomed them to it.' 'In this case, death
seems too small a thing; we will take care in future.' 'He confessed
in due form, and then asked me for writing materials. I brought him
paper, pen, and ink, but he trembled so that he could not write a
word. Look, your Highness,' and he showed a paper. Francesco, putting
down the bellows, took it, and after examining it, said: 'What an
odd thing, I can read nothing here.' 'I told you he could not write
a word. Then I thought it well to observe: "Sir Knight, since I
perceive that you are unable to do your duty, allow me to do mine;"
I then handcuffed him, and putting a rope round his neck, hung him
according to your command.' 'It is well--and the Captain Francesco!'
'Oh, the Captain had got wind of it and escaped; he cannot be found
in Florence.' Don Francesco burst into a great passion, his mouth
quivered and his eyes sparkled. 'Go, pursue him!' he exclaimed, 'send
special couriers, despatch horses--to the confines--to the confines.'
But the Sheriff knew not what to do. Meantime the glass vial, from
some unknown cause, burst, and some of the fragments of the broken
glass struck the Sheriff on the face, penetrating into the flesh;
he uttered a cry of pain. Don Francesco then, in a moment, grew
thoughtful and silent, except that turning towards the Sheriff, he
said coldly: 'Hasten to cure yourself, for the glass is poisoned.'
The Sheriff fled hastily, groaning: 'Oh, my poor wife and children!'
If any one at that moment had tried to bleed me, not a drop of blood
would have followed the lancet. I felt as if nailed to the spot. I
began to commend my soul to God, but by good chance Francesco sank
into a seat, leaning his head down, as if buried in profound thought;
and I distinctly heard him mutter more than once to himself: 'Now,
we will look after the women, and quickly too; but Giordano is in
Rome, and without his consent it would not be right; I might take
the liberty--but no--let him think to render an account--to whom?
To God--to God! Oh, this God lays claim to so many accounts!' I
meantime, having regained my courage, went softly out by the door
that opened into the court-yard, and took refuge under the open vault
of heaven, for while in that house I feared every moment that the
walls of the accursed place would fall upon us!"
Isabella seemed petrified by this atrocious recital; and the unhappy
Lionardo, burying his face in his hands, said in a mournful voice:
"O my God! I have used my speech, the noblest gift with which Thou
hast endowed man, to praise these Medicis! What will posterity think
of me? May my works be scattered! May my descendants soon forget
them! And thou, O Lord, who seest my sorrow by my wishing oblivion
for the creations of my mind, for which I have spent my health and
talents, Thou knowest how truly this prayer comes from my heart."
Great indeed must have been the grief that saddened the heart of
Lionardo Salviati!
But soon recalling himself to the present emergency, Salviati turned
to Isabella and said:
"Come, Isabella, courage!"
"It is not fear that affects me--it is horror, it is shuddering
dread. Unhappy Eleonora! so young, so happy, so attached to pleasures
and to life! We must save her, we must warn her."
"My Lady, remember, it is not your secret; we will think of saving
her afterwards."
"Well, my only friend, my father, my all; I intrust myself soul and
body in your hands."
"It is well, time presses; you must write a letter to her Majesty
Catherine of France; she has a noble heart; bred to misfortunes, she
must have learned to help the unfortunate; and a Medici herself by
birth, she will shrink from having her family disgraced by domestic
tragedies. Relationship also may do something, and each of these
considerations separately, or all combined, seem to me more than
enough to excite her royal heart to grant you an asylum, and provide
means for your flight. I will undertake the responsibility of a
letter reaching her at Paris; this evening a relation of mine, one of
the Corbinelli family, a discreet and prudent young man, sets out for
Lyons, and he can either consign it to the Lieutenant of the city,
or if he does not consider it safe to do so, will for my sake carry
it himself to Paris. As soon as we receive a reply, it will not be
difficult to convey you to Leghorn, and when there, you can embark
for Genoa, or, better still, for Marseilles; reaching which you may
think yourself safe--"
"But Eleonora?"
"Then we will warn her, and she can either join you, or go to Spain
to the Duke d'Alba, or to her brother the Viceroy of Naples. But now
you must write the letter, for time flies." Isabella began to write;
but although she had a wonderful facility in composition, words now
seemed to fail her; she hesitated and kept beginning anew: many and
deep feelings, as may be easily imagined, disturbed her mind. At last
the letter was written, and she said:
"See, Lionardo, if it reads well; I never in my life composed
anything with more difficulty than this letter. Forget that you are
the _Infarinato_, I beg of you--"
"Let us begin."
"'Most honored Queen: one related to you by ties of blood, the only
surviving daughter of Cosimo dei Medici, entreats you to save her
life. Permit me to be silent as to whether I am innocent or guilty of
the crime which my death is intended to expiate; but if guilty, let
my youth, the absence of my husband, opportunity, the examples set
before me, and a woman's heart overflowing with love, plead for me,
as one not entirely unworthy of pardon. I have much to fear from the
Duke of Bracciano, my husband, and more from my brother Francesco. I
confide implicitly in you; give me that assistance which the urgency
of the case demands, that it may not be too late. To me, you will
preserve life, to your house, fame, and you will perform an act
worthy of such a magnanimous Queen, and one for which God will amply
reward you. I will follow whatever course your prudence may dictate,
hoping and wishing to spend in some holy convent, devoted to God's
service, the remainder of my miserable life, and to obtain through
His mercy, remission of my sins."
"'To Catherine, Queen of France.'"
* * * * *
"It seems right to me; copy it, and add that an answer should be
directed to me."
"But," added Isabella, looking down and blushing, "shall I abandon
Troilo?"
"Troilo," answered Lionardo gravely, "knows that the Turks are
threatening Christendom; he must go to Hungary to fight the enemies
of the faith, and by an honorable death gain God's pardon. But be
careful that he knows nothing of all this; he will certainly ruin you
and himself too."
Isabella uttered a deep sigh, and with trembling hand began to copy
the letter. As soon as it was finished, Lionardo burned the first
copy and made an envelope with great care; he sealed the letter with
the Medici arms, and just as he was about to write the direction, he
heard a noise as of a body thrown with violence against the wall, and
then falling upon the pavement; the door was suddenly opened, and
Troilo appeared, drawing aside the screen; standing in the door-way,
he exclaimed with anger:
"One would think that you were weary of life!"
Lionardo concealed the letter in his bosom as quickly as possible;
but not so expeditiously but that Troilo perceived the movement, and
advancing a few steps into the room, stopped, and fixing his sinister
eyes with an ironical smile upon the Duchess, said:
"Since you choose to place guards at your door, I advise your
ladyship to select, if not more impertinent--that is impossible--at
least more valiant ones."
"I thought that, in my own house, the declaration of my will would be
sufficient----"
"But you thought wrong, for you see that I have entered." And then
laying aside his ironical tone, he added angrily: "What subterfuges,
what treasons are these? You would betray me, Lady Isabella! But if
death is to be met, remember there are two of us. If you are of the
Medici race, I am of the Orsini; and I swear by Heaven that no dog
ever bit me, without my being revenged on him. What are you doing,
Sir Knight? What paper is that which you have hidden in your bosom?
Take it out quickly, I must see it."
"Sir Knight," replied Salviati, in an unruffled voice, "it is
something which does not in the least concern you, and you cannot
honorably demand----"
"We can decide upon that after reading the letter."
"Permit me to decline satisfying you, Sir Knight."
"Signor Salviati, I am little used to opposition; give me the letter,
it will be better for you."
"Troilo, if you esteem my favor dear to you, I command you to be
silent and depart----"
"Isabella, it is now time for you to cease commanding and begin to
obey."
"Sir Troilo, I assure you upon the faith of an honorable Knight, that
this does not concern you."
"Faith! Perhaps the same with which you sounded the praises of his
Highness, Sir Cosimo! An honorable Knight never enters by stealth the
house of another, nor meddles in affairs that do not concern him, nor
hatches plots, for if they were not plots, you would not refuse to
give an account of them."
"And who are you, then, Sir Troilo, I pray you----"
"I?--I am he to whom the Duke of Bracciano gave the charge of his
wife----"
"And dare you make a right of this charge? Ah! Sir Troilo."
"What do you mean, Salviati? Beware! I am a man capable of cutting
out your tongue--you know----"
"Troilo, how can you so far forget yourself? You owe him as much
respect as if he were my brother."
"Your brothers are worthy of respect, truly! The letter,
Salviati--the letter!"
"I will never give it to you."
"Beware, or I will use force----"
"Would you act the ruffian? Do you not see that I am unarmed?"
"So much the better; I can the more easily accomplish my wishes. But
had you a sword, it would make no difference; he who wields the pen,
can ill wield the sword."
"The letter is next my heart," said Salviati, crossing his arms over
his breast, "and you shall not have it unless you tear forth both."
"And I will do it----"
"Madman! Before touching him, you must pass over my body!" cried
Isabella, rushing between Troilo and Lionardo.
"Back!" exclaimed Troilo, and with one dash of the hand he pushed the
Duchess upon the couch.
"Ah miserable, miserable Isabella! For what a man have you sacrificed
your life!"
"The letter!"
"I have told you the only way to obtain it."
"Your blood be upon your own head."--And drawing his dagger with his
left hand, Troilo sought to stab him. Lionardo did not move a step:
intrepid, his arms still folded on his breast, he stood ready to
suffer a violence to which, by his personal weakness, as well as by
his being unarmed, he could oppose no resistance. Troilo had almost
reached him, when the door was hastily thrown open, and Lelio Torelli
appeared, much excited, and exclaimed with a loud voice:
"His Lordship, Duke of Bracciano!"
This name had the effect of a Medusa's head upon Troilo; he recoiled,
quickly replacing his dagger in its sheath, and endeavoring to
compose his ruffled countenance; but these two contrary sentiments,
anger and self-control, instead of inducing composure, so disordered
him that he was fearful to look upon.
Isabella, who was lying terrified upon the couch, raised herself as
if by electricity, and stood looking intently at the door.
The Knight, Salviati, thinking that not being a member of the family,
he might go out as if nothing had happened, saluting the Duke as he
passed, and reserving his compliments for another time, departed
without any appearance of haste, and with his usual composure.
Passing through the halls and down the staircase, he wondered greatly
at neither meeting the Duke, nor seeing in the court-yard nor at the
door, any indications of his arrival; he did not understand what it
meant, but did not deem it prudent to go back to discover, thinking
that it could be explained at some other time.
Isabella and Troilo kept their eyes intently fixed upon the door for
some moments, expecting to see Sir Paolo Giordano appear; but finding
that they looked in vain, Troilo, overcoming his astonishment the
first, asked Lelio.
"Well, where is the Duke?"
Lelio, sure by this time of Salviati's safety, turned with an
ingenuous, yet at the same time mocking look towards Isabella, saying:
"His Lordship, Duke of Bracciano, sends greeting to your Ladyship,
and notifies you, that after despatching a few other affairs at Rome,
he depends upon joining your Ladyship towards the middle of the
coming month of June."
And making a low bow, and looking somewhat askance at Troilo, he
retired. Troilo, perceiving the trick, clenched his hands and
muttered between his teeth:
"Traitorous dog, you shall pay me for this!"