Catherine arrives in Rome;—is accused of attempting to poison the
Pope;—is imprisoned in St. Angelo;—is liberated;—and goes to
Florence.—Her cloister life with the Murate nuns.—Her collection of
wonderful secrets.—Making allowances.—Catherine's death.
Passing along the same line of streets which she had traversed
twenty-three years before as the bride of the then wealthiest and most
powerful man in Rome,—as much an object of curiosity now as then to
the sight-loving populace, eager to stare at the celebrated prisoner of
the now wealthiest and most powerful man in Rome, as then to welcome
the great man's bride,—Catherine was led by her captor to the Vatican.
Up the well-known stair, and through the familiar chambers, lined,
when last she passed across them, with a crowd of bending courtiers,
anxious to catch a word or glance from the powerful favourite, who held
all Apostolic graces in her hand, she passed on to the presence of the
Pontiff.
Alexander received her courteously; assigned an apartment in the
Belvidere of the Vatican as her prison, and assured her, that no care
should be wanting to make her residence there as little irksome as was
consistent with the precautions necessary to secure her safe custody.
No doubt the haughty lady replied to the Sovereign Pontiff, who, when
last they had met, had been too happy in being honoured with her
friendship, with equal courtesy. But the feelings in the breast of
either interlocutor, which were thus decorously veiled, may be easily
estimated.
[Sidenote: ACCUSATION AGAINST HER.]
And it was not long before the genuine hatred pierced through the
flimsy sham of courtly politeness. In the month of June—that is, four
months after her arrival in Rome—an accusation was brought against
Catherine of having attempted to destroy the Pope by poison. The story
put forward was one strangely characteristic of medieval modes of
thinking and acting.[143] It was asserted that when Catherine heard in
the spring of 1499, that the Pope had judicially declared her deposed
from her sovereignty, she had at once determined on compassing his
death. With this view, she had caused certain letters, written by her
to the Pontiff, to be placed inside the clothing, on the breast of one
dying of the plague, then prevalent in Forlì. These letters, having
thus been rendered deadly to whoso should touch them, were consigned to
a certain confidential servant of the Countess, named Battista, with
orders to proceed to Rome, and deliver the papers into no hand save
that of Alexander himself. This man, the accusation went on to say, met
in Rome one Cristoforo Balatrone, a former servant of the Riarii, then
in disgrace with his mistress; and confided to him the real object of
the mission intrusted to him, promising him restoration to Catherine's
favour, if he would assist in the execution of it.
The accusation, therefore, it will be observed, supposed that Catherine
did not merely avail herself of this servant's aid, as a courier to
carry the letters and deliver them as ordered, which would have been
all that was needful, but unnecessarily, as it would seem, confided to
him the fatal secret of her intentions.
Cristoforo, it was said, instead of acquiescing in Battista's proposal,
persuaded the latter to reveal the whole to the Pontiff. For that
purpose they forthwith proceeded to the Vatican. It was late in
the evening, and they were bidden by one Tommaso Carpi, the Pope's
chamberlain, and who was also, as it happened, a Forlì man, to return
on the morrow if they wished an audience. In the mean time Cristoforo,
not being able to keep so great a secret for so many hours, related
the whole matter to his brother, a private in the Papal guards.
The soldier immediately reported the story to his captain; and he,
thinking promptitude necessary in such a case, forthwith arrested both
Cristoforo and Battista, and made the Pope acquainted with all the
circumstances on the following morning. Alexander knowing, it was said
(although at that period he could have known nothing of the sort, but
could only have hoped it), that Catherine would shortly be brought to
Rome, ordered that these men should be kept in secret confinement till
the arrival of the Countess.
According to this story, therefore, Alexander was aware of Catherine's
murderous intentions at the time of that courteous reception we read
of. But then, and for four months afterwards, no such accusation was
heard of. At the end of that time Catherine was submitted to the
humiliation of being confronted with the two men who testified to
this accusation, before Alexander himself. To our ideas it would seem
that there must have been various means of proving or disproving the
facts in question. The letters might have been produced, and means of
ascertaining their contagiousness devised. But juridical and medical
science were in far too barbarous a state, and still more fatally the
sentiment of fairness and appreciation of the desirableness of truth,
far too much deadened for any such mode of proceeding to have been
thought of. The witnesses maintained their story by their assertion;
Catherine utterly denied that there was any truth in any part of it;
and the whole scope of the examination seems to have been to see which
party would most obstinately adhere to their assertion.
[Sidenote: MEDIEVAL JURISPRUDENCE.]
In an ordinary case the obstinacy would quickly have been more
satisfactorily tested by placing the accused on the rack. But even a
Pope, and that Pope Alexander VI., would hardly venture to apply the
torture to Catherine Sforza. The examination, therefore appears to have
resulted in a battledore-and-shuttlecock iteration of "You did," and
"I did not," so much to the advantage of the lady, that one[144] of
her biographers writes triumphantly of her, that "Although confronted
with those who audaciously accused her of having sent them to Rome for
that purpose, she, with a virile and intrepid mind, conquered by her
obstinate constancy the wicked will of Alexander."
This wicked will was not, however, so completely vanquished as to
prevent the accused, though not convicted, Countess from being
immediately transferred from the Belvidere to the castle of St. Angelo;
to the prisons of which ill-omened fortress she was consigned on the
26th of June.
And all the probabilities of the case seem to indicate that the
accusation was trumped up merely to justify this change in the
Countess' place of confinement. Catherine, while she lived, was likely
to be ever as tormenting a thorn in the side of Cæsare Borgia, as the
ousted Ordelaffi pretenders had been in hers, even during the Pontiff's
life. And after that, when the new sovereign of Romagna would have to
maintain himself in his position unaided by Apostolic influence, she
would be a far more dangerous enemy. Yet the rank and connections of
Catherine, and her own reputation and character and standing among the
princes of Italy were such, that it was requisite to proceed warily in
any attempt to get rid of her. A good pretext was necessary to justify
even the rigour of imprisoning her in St. Angelo. But that step taken,
the rest would not be so difficult. Those once hidden in the dreadful
vaults of that huge mass of old Roman masonry, were too completely
cut off from all communication with the outer world, for there to be
any possibility of marking their passage from the living tomb, to the
veritable grave within its walls. Papal dungeons reveal no secrets;
and there can be little doubt that, but for the interposition of an
arm more powerful than that of the Pontiff, Catherine would never have
recrossed that threshold passed by so many unreturning feet.
[Sidenote: HER RESPECT FOR THE POPE.]
As to the real guilt of our heroine in this matter, it must be admitted
that the presumption in her favour rests more on the improbability of
the means said to have been selected by her, and on the incredibility
of Alexander's having suppressed all mention of the crime for four
months, rather than on any conviction that she would have been
incapable of any such atrocity. That Catherine would without hesitation
or scruple take human life—nay, many human lives—on the provocation
of wrong much lighter than that received by her from the Pontiff,
is clear enough; but it is true, that many, most probably, of her
contemporaries, who would have never thought twice of sending burgher
or peasant to the rack or gallows in a fit of passing passion, would
have shrunk from poisoning a Pope. The atrocity of the deed, in the
estimation of the contemporary writers, is derived from the sacred
character and high rank of its object. And these are considerations
which, it may be fairly supposed from what we have seen of Catherine,
would be likely to influence her less than they might have done others.
It is difficult to believe that Popes were very sacred personages in
her eyes. She had been too much behind the scenes to be much under
the influence of stage illusion. And, in a word, it will be felt, if
the foregoing pages have at all succeeded in picturing this masterful
woman to the reader as she appears to the writer, that she was not
likely to have turned away from any means that presented themselves to
her of removing out of her path any individual, be he who he might,
whose existence seemed fatal to the objects for which she had lived and
struggled.
Nevertheless, for the reasons above stated, it seems more probable that
the accusation in question was trumped up for the sake of furnishing
an opportunity to the Pope of taking her life, which was almost as
dangerous to his aims, as his life was to her. And had it not been for
the powerful interference of the French king, doubtless Catherine would
never have come out alive from the dungeons of St. Angelo. One of the
historians[145] simply says that she owed her life to the protection
of France. Things were not in a position to render it possible that
Alexander should act in defiance of the remonstrances of Louis XII.;
and Catherine was liberated on the 30th of June, 1501.
Having remained at Rome a few days among her relatives and connections
of the house of Riario, she left it for the last time on the 27th of
July, and went to Florence. All her children by her three husbands had
already found an asylum there; where, in consideration of her third
marriage, rights of citizenship had, by an instrument bearing date the
27th of July, 1498, been conferred on all of them.
It is not without a certain feeling of surprise that one remembers that
Catherine, after a career so full of incident, comprising three married
lives and three widowhoods, was now only thirty-nine years of age. The
active and useful portion of many an existence begins at as late a
period. But Catherine seems to have felt that she had lived her life,
and that the active portion of her career was over. Almost immediately
on arriving in Florence, she selected the convent of the Murate as the
place of her retirement; and she never afterwards quitted it.
More than one change in the political world occurred during the years
she passed there, which seemed calculated to make a place for her once
again upon the great scene of Europe, and perhaps to open a path for
her return to sovereign place and power. Alexander VI. died in 1503;
and, after a few months' occupation of the Papal throne by Pius III.,
Giuliano della Rovere, first cousin of Girolamo Riario, was elected and
became Pope under the name of Julius II. It is true that this warrior
Pope did not subsequently appear disposed to lend any helping hand
to his Riari cousins for the recovery of their dominions; but the
elevation of a cousin to the chair of St. Peter might well call forth
from the cloister one who had any wish remaining to play a part in the
world.
[Sidenote: AT THE MURATE.]
But Catherine remained quiet in the monotonous repose of her cell
in the Via Ghibellina, and did not disturb herself to make even the
smallest attempt at obtaining the favour of the new Pontiff. It must
be concluded that she had in truth abandoned the world, with an
earnestness of purpose more durable than is usually the case with such
votaries of seclusion.
Yet few can have ever experienced a more violent change than that
suffered by this strong-willed woman in passing from a life so filled
with movement, excitement, activity, danger, pains, pleasures, and
vicissitudes, to the dead tranquillity of a secure cloister cell.
Her priest biographer[146] hints that the macerations, fasts, and
austerities practised by her during her residence at the Murate, were
such as in all probability to have shortened her life. Having followed
with infinite complacency the worldly triumphs and grandeurs of his
heroine, as long as devoutly worshipped Mammon had rewards to shower on
his votary, the greedy biographer seeks to finish off his picture by
adding a little halo of sanctity, and thus claims double honours for
his client.
But there is reason to think that these severe penances are wholly
the creatures of the writer's priestly invention. The Murate, at the
period of Catherine's retirement there, was not the place any penitent
would have selected for the leading of an austere life. The convent was
inhabited exclusively by noble ladies, and some picture of the life
led there by them, has been given by the present writer in speaking of
the residence there of another Catherine[147] a few years afterwards.
Her childhood was passed within the same cloister-wall that had
sheltered the decline of that namesake whose character presented so
many striking points of similarity to her own.
It is not likely that the Murate convent was the scene of any severe
austerities. But if no spiritual excitement of this sort supplied
for Catherine the place of that which she had lost, the hours of the
long day, however diversified by matins, lauds, complines, and vesper
amusements, must surely have passed heavily.
A very curious MS. volume,[148] copied from one in Catherine's own
handwriting, may perhaps indicate the disposal of some of those weary
hours. It consists of more than five hundred receipts and experiments
in medicine, chemistry, cosmetics, perfumery, alchemy, &c. The practice
of forming and preserving such collections seems to have been a common
one among the ladies of that time; and various similar volumes may be
met with. In a short preface, the copier of Catherine's manuscript, a
certain Messer Lucantonio Cuppani, declares that he has tested many of
the receipts and found the results perfectly satisfactory, and that he
doubts not that the rest are equally trustworthy, seeing that so great
a woman had recorded them; wherefore he has made the present copy, lest
the knowledge of such wonderful secrets might be lost.
[Sidenote: COINING SECRETS.]
Many of these valuable secrets are of a nature to be only too really
valuable in the hands of a sovereign possessing a mint of her own. The
papal bull authorising the coining of money at Forlì contains a special
provision for the goodness of the metal. But the following entries, in
the royal-minded Catherine's own hand, suggest strong doubts of the
condition having been duly observed:—
"To convert pewter into silver of the finest quality and of standard
alloy."
"For giving to bars of brass a fine golden colour."
Several receipts, "For multiplying silver."
More curious and suspicious still, is the possession of a method by
which "to give weight to a crown or ducat of gold, _without hurting the
conscience_—senza carico di coscienza"!
A great number refer to subjects, which we must suppose to have been
more interesting to Catherine at an earlier period of her life, than
when living among "the wall'd-up Nuns." As, for instance, a receipt
"to drive away pallor from the face, and give it a colour." For this
purpose, roots of myrrh must be shred into good generous wine; then
"drink sufficiently of that, and it will give you a carnation of the
most beautiful." This is probably one of the receipts tried, and found
to answer by Messer Lucantonio.
Then we have a water to preserve the skin against blotches; another to
make the teeth white; and a third to make the gums red; and very many
others for the beautification of almost every part of the person.
As a specimen of the medical "secrets," of which a great number are
treasured up in this curious volume, the following may be cited: For
infirm lungs, an ointment is to be made of the blood of a hen, a duck,
a pig, a goose, mixed with fresh butter and white wax. And this is to
be applied to the chest on a fox's skin. In which the fox-skin holds
a place analogous to that of the six pounds of beef in the well-known
recipe for making stone soup.
More problematical is a receipt for "a drink to make splintered bones
come out of the wound of themselves."
There are many examples of sick-room practice, based on curious
combinations of medical with theological treatment; as in the following
method for healing sabre wounds: "Take three pieces of an old shirt,
steeped in holy water, and bind them on the wound in the form of a
cross. The wound must have been carefully washed; and the patient must
have no offensive arms about him. He must say three _paters_ and three
_aves_ off; if he cannot, some one must say them for him. For the
success of this cure, it is necessary that both the wounded man and the
operator be in a state of bodily purity."
The following must probably be one of those which good Lucantonio did
not make trial of, but took on trust undoubtingly, from his faith in
the noble author's "greatness:" "To make a toad cast his stone. Take a
toad of those which have a red head. Place him in a cage, and put the
cage upon a piece of scarlet cloth; and early in the morning, set it in
the ray of the rising sun. The toad will look fixedly at the sun; and
you must let him remain there for three hours. And at the end of that
time he will cast forth a stone which has three virtues: 1st, It is
specific against poison; 2nd, It is good to staunch blood; 3rd, When a
horse is in pain, grate some of the stone, and make him drink it."
[Sidenote: HER MEDICAL SECRETS.]
There are among these valuable secrets, waters "to make iron hard;" "to
make it as brittle as glass;" "to dissolve pearls;" "to dissolve all
metals;" &c., &c.
There are no less than thirteen different specifics against witchcraft.
Then, if you would know whether a sick person will recover, you must
"clean the face of the sick with warm paste, and then give the paste to
a dog. If the dog should eat the paste, the sick man will recover; if
not, he will die."
Lastly, there are a great number of a kind that, less than any of the
others, should have been of any interest to the recluse of the Murate;
such as love philtres, specifics against sterility and other kindred
inconveniences. Several are for purposes set forth by the noble lady
with the utmost cynical directness of terms, but which cannot, under
any veil of phrase, be even indicated here. And some instructions
there are, which would place any modern English man or woman acting on
them, in a very disagreeable position in the dock of the Old Bailey;
but which are here, by some theological sharp practice, so cleverly
and piously managed, as to attain their object, "_senza carico di
coscienza_."
It would seem, too, that, startling as is the cynicism of some of the
language which Messer Lucantonio has not scrupled to copy in his best
text-hand, some of the lady's secrets must have been of a yet more
abominable description. For passages in cipher frequently occur in a
context, which indicates that such has been the reason for so veiling
them.
In short, there is to be found in the pages of this strangely curious
and tell-tale volume, abundant evidence that the woman who could
collect, transcribe, and find an interest in preserving such "secrets,"
as many of those here, must, according to English nineteenth-century
codes and feelings, have been lost to every sense of decency, and
deplorably ignorant of the laws, and even of the true nature of
morality. But there is no reason to think that Catherine fell in these
respects at all lower than the general level of her age and country.
There is ample proof, on the contrary, that in these, as in all other
matters, Catherine was essentially a woman of her time—in no respect
in advance of her time, or behind it; but furnishing a full and fair
expression and type of her age and class, as is ever the case with
vigorous, bustling, strong, practical natures of her stamp. The men,
who are before their time, whose domain is the future, to their utter
exclusion from all dominion over the present, are of another sort.
[Sidenote: BIOGRAPHIC JUDGMENTS.]
The writers and readers of biographies are, as it seems to the author
of the present, too much wont to feel themselves called upon to
express, or at least to form a judgment, as to the amount of moral
approbation or condemnation to be awarded to the object of their
examination. They continually suffer their thoughts to be drawn from
the legitimate and useful study of their subject, by a constant
consideration of the judgment to be passed on such or such individual
soul by the one all-seeing Judge, alone competent to solve any such
question. They talk of "making allowance," as the phrase goes; and
spend much weighing on the quantum of such allowance admissible. Vain
speculation surely, and quite beside the purpose! Not on the ground
of "charitable construction" being due, and of "judging not," &c.
(for lack of charity towards a fellow-creature, or other evil passion
whatever, can hardly find place in our thoughts of one, whose exit
from our scene was four centuries ago), but because such questions
are insoluble, and if they were soluble, would be unprofitable. For
we are not in the position of the bedside physician, whose duty is
to alleviate the pangs of the sufferer, and to struggle against the
individual malady by individual appliances. We are in the place of
the _post-mortem_ anatomist, who, without reference to the sufferings
of the deceased, has only to ascertain that a certain amount of
mischief to the machine he is examining, resulted from such and such
circumstances. And this information is useful only on account of his
persuasion that other similar machines will be in like circumstances
similarly affected.
We have no need, therefore, of any of that feeling of the moral
pulse, which might be useful for the priest or philosopher, who would
"minister to a mind diseased." We have only to ascertain that a
certain amount of deviation from moral health existed under such and
such circumstances. And this, in as much as the laws which govern our
ethical constitution are as immutable as those which rule the physical
world, is an investigation of infinite and eternal interest. Under the
influence of such and such social constitutions, spiritual teachings,
and modes of living, this case of moral disease was generated. Here is
a practically useful fact. And if it should appear that, under those
same influences this malady was epidemic, the interest of the case
assumes larger proportions.
Altogether dismissing from our minds, therefore, all considerations
of our poor defunct subject's blameableness, and deservings, and all
weighing of allowances wholly imponderable in any scales of ours, let
us heedfully observe and reflect on the proved facts of the case.
This poor Catherine, born, as our autopsy shows, with so strong,
vigorous, and large a nature, came to be savagely reckless of human
life, and blood-thirsty in her vengeance; came to be so grossly
material in her mode of regarding that part of our nature, which,
duly spiritualised, contributes much to our preparation for eternity,
but which, unspiritualised, most draws us to the level of the lower
animals, as to be capable of _writing_ such things as have been
alluded to; came lastly to consider all distinction between right
and wrong, and God's eternal laws to be of the nature of an Act of
Parliament carelessly drawn, through which, by sharp-witted dexterity,
coaches-and-four, as the saying goes, might be driven with impunity;
came, we say, to be all this as the result of the teaching offered her
by all around her in that great fifteenth century, of the spiritual
guidance afforded her by those "ages of faith," and living heart-felt
religion, and of the social ideas produced by the medieval relationship
between the governors of mankind and their subjects.
Catherine continued to reside with the Murate nuns till the time of her
death, in the year 1509, the forty-seventh of her age. She made a long
and accurately drawn will, characterised by the justice and good sense
with which she partitioned what belonged to her among the children
of her three marriages; and was buried in the chapel of the convent;
where her monument was still visible, although, strangely enough,
its inscribed altar tombstone had at some period been turned face
downwards, and where her remains reposed till they were (literally)
dispersed a few years ago, on occasion of the old Murate convent being
converted into a state prison.
VITTORIA COLONNA.
(1490–1547.)
CHAPTER I.
Changes in the Condition of Italy.—Dark Days.—Circumstances
which led to the Invasion of the French.—State of things in
Naples.—Fall of the Arragonese Dynasty.—Birth of Vittoria.—The
Colonna.—Marino.—Vittoria's Betrothal.—The Duchess di
Francavilla.—Literary Culture at Naples.—Education of Vittoria in
Ischia.
A number of years less than sufficient for the passing away of one
generation elapsed between the birth of Catherine Sforza and that of
Vittoria Colonna. The latter was celebrating her marriage, with life
all decked in its gayest hues, and lighted with its brightest sunshine
spread out before her, in the same year in which the stout-hearted
old châtelaine, wearied and world-sick was dying out of sight in a
cloister. But the passage of these few years had brought about events
that furnished forth a changed scene for the younger lady to play her
part on. The second dark age of Italy, according to the historians, was
about to commence. The bad times were at hand. The change, we are told
by the recorders of it, was all for the worse. And in truth it might
well appear so, to all, save those whose faith forbids them to believe
in any change for the worse, and whose patience can afford to allow the
world-phœnix, as Carlyle says, a long time,—say, as regards Italy,
some four hundred years or so—for burning herself.
The process has not, it must be admitted, been a pleasant one; and
those years at the beginning of it were assuredly not pleasant times to
those whose lot was cast in them.
The French came down on the country to light up the pyre; the Spaniards
followed to make matters worse; Holy Fathers, the only Heaven-given
guidance known, went from bad to worse, till badness culminated in a
Borgia; new ideas too were bred, like flies in the heat, coming from
no man knew where,—leading, assuredly no man then living guessed
whither,—and promising in the long run to give more trouble than
either French, Spaniards, or Popes,—all tended to make a troublous,
yeasty, seething time of our Vittoria's life-span.
The signs of change, which were perplexing monarchs at the period
of her entry on the scene, belonged simply to the material order of
things; and such broad outline of them, as is necessary to give some
idea of the general position of Italy at that day, may be drawn in few
words.
Certain more important symptoms of changes in the world of thought and
speculation, did not rise to the surface of society till a few years
later, and these will have to be spoken of in a subsequent page.
[Sidenote: FRENCH INVADE ITALY.]
When Galeazzo Maria Sforza, Duke of Milan, was murdered in 1476, his
son, Gian Galeazzo, a minor, succeeded to the dukedom. But his uncle
Ludovico, known in history as "Ludovico il Moro," under pretence of
protecting his nephew, usurped the whole power and property of the
crown, which he continued wrongfully to keep in his own hands even
after the majority of his nephew. The latter, however, having married
a grand-daughter of Ferdinand of Arragon, King of Naples, her father,
Alphonso, heir apparent of that crown, became exceedingly discontented
at the state of tutelage in which his son-in-law was thus held. And
his remonstrances and threats became so urgent, that "Black Ludovick"
perceived that he should be unable to retain his usurped position,
unless he could find means of disabling Ferdinand and his son Alphonso
from exerting their strength against him. With this view he persuaded
Charles VIII. of France to undertake with his aid the conquest of
the kingdom of Naples, to which the French monarch asserted a claim,
derived from the house of Anjou, which had reigned in Naples, till they
were ousted by the house of Arragon. This invitation, which the Italian
historians consider the first fountain head of all their calamities,
was given in 1492. On the 23rd of August, 1494, Charles left France on
his march to Italy, and arrived in Rome on the 31st of December of that
year.
On the previous 25th of January, Ferdinand, the old King of Naples,
died, and his son, Alphonso, succeeded him. But the new monarch, who
during the latter years of his father's life had wielded the whole
power of the kingdom, was so much hated by his subjects, that on the
news of the French King's approach they rose in rebellion and declared
in favour of the invader. Alphonso made no attempt to face the storm,
but forthwith abdicated in favour of his son Ferdinand, fled to Sicily,
and "set about serving God," as the chroniclers phrase it, in a
monastery, where he died a few months later, on the 19th of November,
1495.
Ferdinand II., his son, was not disliked by the nation; and
Guicciardini gives it as his opinion, that if the abdication of his
father in his favour had been executed earlier, it might have had the
effect of saving the kingdom from falling into the hands of the French
monarch. But it was now too late. A large portion of it had already
declared itself in favour of the invaders. Ferdinand found the contest
hopeless, and early in 1495 retired to Ischia. Charles entered Naples
the 21st of February, 1495, and the whole kingdom hastened to accept
him as its sovereign.
Meantime, however, Ludovico, Duke of Milan, whose oppressed nephew
had died on the 22nd of October, 1494, began to be alarmed at the too
complete success of his own policy, and entered into a league with the
Venetians, the King of the Romans, and Ferdinand of Castile, against
Charles, who seems to have immediately become as much panic stricken
at the news of it as Alphonso had been at his approach. The French,
moreover, both the monarch and his followers, had lost no time in
making themselves so odious to the Neapolitans, that the nation had
already repented of having abandoned Ferdinand so readily, and were
anxious to get rid of the French and receive him back again. Towards
the end of May, 1495, Charles hastily left Naples on his return to
France, leaving Gilbert de Montpensier as Viceroy; and on the 7th of
July, Ferdinand returned to Naples and was gladly welcomed by the
people.
And now, having thus the good-will of his subjects already disgusted
with their French rulers, Ferdinand might in all probability have
succeeded without any foreign assistance in ridding his country
of the remaining French troops left behind him by Charles, and in
re-establishing the dynasty of Arragon on the throne of Naples, had
he not at the time when things looked worst with him, on the first
coming of Charles, committed the fatal error of asking assistance from
Ferdinand the Catholic, of Castile.
[Sidenote: RAPID CHANGES AT NAPLES.]
Ferdinand the Catholic and the crafty, did not wait to be asked a
second time; but instantly despatched to his aid, Consalvo Ernandez
d'Aguilar, known thereafter in Neapolitan history as "Il gran
Capitano," both on account of his rank as Generalissimo of the Spanish
forces, and of his high military merit and successes. Ferdinand of
Arragon, with the help of Consalvo and the troops he brought with him,
soon succeeded in driving the French out of his kingdom; and appeared
to be on the eve of a more prosperous period when a sudden illness put
an end to his life in October, 1496. He died without offspring, and was
succeeded by his uncle Frederick.
Thus, as the Neapolitan historians remark, Naples had passed under the
sway of no less than five monarchs in the space of three years: to wit—
Ferdinand of Arragon, the first, who died 25th of January, 1494.
Alphonso, his son, who abdicated on the 3rd of February, 1495.
Charles of France, crowned at Naples on the 20th of May, 1495, and
driven out of the kingdom immediately afterwards.
Ferdinand of Arragon, II., son of Alphonso, who entered Naples in
triumph on the 7th of July, 1495, and died in October, 1496.
Frederick of Arragon, his uncle, who succeeded him.
But these so rapid changes had not exhausted the slides of Fortune's
magic lanthorn. She had other harlequinade transformations in hand,
sufficient to make even Naples tired of change and desirous of repose.
Frederick, the last, and perhaps the best, and best-loved of the
Neapolitan sovereigns of the dynasty of Arragon, reigned but to witness
the final discomfiture and downfall of his house.
Charles VIII. died in April, 1498; but his successor, Louis XII., was
equally anxious to possess himself of the crown of Naples, and more
able to carry his views into effect. The principal obstacle to his
doing so was the power of Ferdinand of Spain, and the presence of the
Spanish troops under Consalvo in Naples. Ferdinand the Catholic, could
by no means permit the spoliation of his kinsman and ally, Frederick,
who loyally relied on his protection, for the profit of the King of
France. Louis knew that it was impossible he should do so. But the Most
Christian King thought that the Most Catholic King might very probably
find it consistent with kingly honour to take a different view of the
case, if it were proposed to him to go shares in the plunder. And
the Most Christian King's estimate of royal nature was so just, that
the Most Catholic King acceded in the frankest manner to his royal
brother's proposal.
Louis accordingly sent an army to invade Naples in the year 1500. The
unfortunate Frederick was beguiled the while into thinking that his
full trust might be placed on the assistance of Spain. But, when on the
25th of June, 1501, the Borgia Pope, Alexander VII., published a bull
graciously dividing his dominions between the two eldest sons of the
Church, he perceived at once that his position was hopeless. Resolving,
however, not to abandon his kingdom without making an attempt to
preserve it, he determined to defend himself in Capua. That city was
however taken by the French on the 24th of July, 1501, and Frederick
fled to Ischia; whence he subsequently retired to France, and died at
Tours on the 9th of November, 1504.
[Sidenote: FORTUNES OF NAPLES.]
Meanwhile, the royal accomplices having duly shared their booty,
instantly began to quarrel, as thieves are wont to do, over the
division of it. Each in fact had from the first determined eventually
to possess himself of the whole; proving, that if indeed there be
honour among thieves, the proverb must not be understood to apply to
such as are "Most Christian," and "Most Catholic."
Naples thus became the battle-field, as well as the prize of the
contending parties; and was torn to pieces in the struggle while
waiting to see which invader was to be her master. At length the
Spaniard proved the stronger, as he was also the more iniquitous of the
two; and on the 1st of January, 1504, the French finally quitted the
kingdom of Naples, leaving it in the entire and peaceful possession
of Ferdinand of Spain. Under him, and his successors on the Spanish
throne, the unhappy province was governed by a series of viceroys,
of whom, says Colletta,[149] "one here and there was good, many bad
enough, and several execrable," for a period of 230 years, with results
still visible.
Such was the scene on which our heroine had to enter in the year 1490.
She was the daughter of Fabrizio, brother of that protonotary Colonna,
whose miserable death at the hands of the hereditary enemies of his
family, the Orsini, allied with the Riarii, then in power for the
nonce during the popedom of Sixtus IV., has been related in the life
of Caterina Sforza. Her mother was Agnes of Montefeltre; and all the
biographers and historians tell us, that she was the youngest of six
children born to her parents. The statement is a curious instance of
the extreme and very easily detected inaccuracy, which may often be
found handed on unchallenged from one generation to another of Italian
writers of biography and history.
The Cavaliere Pietro Visconti, the latest Italian, and by far the most
complete of Vittoria's biographers, who edited a handsome edition of
her works, not published, but printed in 1840 at the expense of the
prince-banker, Torlonia, on the occasion of his marriage with the
Princess Donna Teresa Colonna, writes thus at page lv of the life
prefixed to this votive volume:—"The child (Vittoria) increased and
completed the number of children whom Agnes of Montefeltre, daughter of
Frederick, Duke of Urbino, had presented to her husband." He adds, in
a note, "this Princess had already had five sons, Frederick, Ascanio,
Ferdinando, Camillo, Sciarra."
Coppi, in his "Memorie Colonnesi," makes no mention[150] of the last
three,—giving as the offspring of Fabrizio and Agnes, only Frederick,
Ascanio, and Vittoria. Led by this discrepancy to examine further the
accuracy of Visconti's statement, I found that Agnes di Montefeltre was
born in 1472; and was, consequently, eighteen years old at the time of
Vittoria's birth. It became clear, therefore, that it was exceedingly
improbable, not to say impossible, that she should have had five
children previously. But I found farther, that Frederick the eldest
son, and always hitherto said to have been the eldest child of Agnes,
died according to the testimony of his tombstone,[151] still existing
in the Church of Santa Maria di Pallazzola, in the year 1516, being
then in his nineteenth year. He was, therefore, born in 1497 or 1498,
and must have been seven or eight years younger than Vittoria; who
must, it should seem, have been the eldest and not the youngest of her
parent's children.
[Sidenote: THE HOUSE OF COLONNA.]
It can scarcely be necessary to tell even the most exclusively English
reader, how ancient, how noble, how magnificent, was the princely
house of Colonna. They were so noble, that their lawless violence,
free-booting habits, private wars, and clan enmities, rendered them a
scourge to their country; and for several centuries contributed largely
to the mass of anarchy and barbarism, that rendered Rome one of the
most insecure places of abode in Europe, and still taints the instincts
of its populace with characteristics, which make it one of the least
civilisable races of Italy. The Orsini being equally noble, and equally
powerful and lawless, the high-bred mastiffs of either princely house
for more than 200 years, with short respites of ill-kept truce, never
lost an opportunity of flying at each other's throats, to the infinite
annoyance and injury of their less noble and more peaceably disposed
fellow-citizens.
Though the possessions of the Colonna clan had before been wide-spread
and extensive, they received considerable additions during the Papacy
of the Colonna pope, Martin V., great uncle of Fabrizio, Vittoria's
father, who occupied the Papal chair from 1417 to 1431. At the period
of our heroine's birth the family property was immense.
Very many were the fiefs held by the Colonna in the immediate
neighbourhood of the city, and especially among the hills to the
east and south-east of the Campagna. There several of the strongest
positions, and most delightfully situated towns and castles, belonged
to them.
Among the more important of these was Marino, admirably placed among
the hills that surround the lovely lake of Albano.
Few excursionists among the storied sites in the environs of Rome make
Marino the object of a pilgrimage. The town has a bad name in these
days. The Colonna vassals who inhabit it, and still pay to the feudal
lord a tribute, recently ruled by the Roman tribunals to be due (a
suit having been instituted by the inhabitants with a view of shaking
off this old mark of vassalage), are said to be eminent among the
inhabitants of the Campagna for violence, lawlessness, and dishonesty.
The bitterest hatred, the legacy of old wrong and oppression, is
felt by them against their feudal lords; and this sentiment, which,
inherited, as it seems to be, from generation to generation, speaks
but little in favour of the old feudal rule, does not tend to make the
men of Marino good or safe subjects. Many a stranger has, however,
probably looked down from the beautifully wooded heights of Castel
Gandolfo on the picturesquely gloomy little walled town creeping up the
steep side of its hill, and crowned by the ancient seignorial residence
it so much detests. And any one of these would be able to assure a
recent intensely French biographer of Vittoria, that he is in error in
supposing that the town and castle of Marino have so entirety perished
and been forgotten, that the site of them even is now unknown![152]
[Sidenote: PALIANO.]
On the contrary the old castle has recently been repaired and
modernised into a very handsome nineteenth century residence to the no
small injury of its outward appearance in a picturesque and historical
point of view. The interior still contains unchanged several of the
nobly proportioned old halls, which were planned at a time when mighty
revels in the rare times of peace, and defence in the more normal
condition of clan warfare, were the object held in view by the builder.
Many memorials of interest, moreover, pictures, and other records of
the old times were brought to Marino from Paliano, when the Colonna
family were in the time of the last Pope, most unjustly compelled to
sell the latter possession to the Roman government. Paliano, which from
its mountain position is extremely strong and easily defended, seemed
to the government of the Holy Father to be admirably adapted to that
prime want of a Papal despotism, a prison for political offenders.
The Colonnas, therefore, were invited to sell it to the state; and on
their declining to do so, received an intimation, that the paternal
government having determined on possessing it, and having also fixed
the price they intended to give for it, no option in the matter could
be permitted them. So Marino was enriched by all that was transferable
of the ancient memorials that had gathered around the stronger mountain
fortress in the course of centuries.
It was at Marino that Vittoria was born, in a rare period of most
unusually prolonged peace. Her parents had selected, we are told, from
among their numerous castles, that beautiful spot for the enjoyment
of the short interval of tranquillity which smiled on their first
years[153] of marriage. A very successful raid, in which Fabrizio and
his cousin Prospero Colonna had harried the fiefs of the Orsini, and
driven off a great quantity of cattle,[154] had been followed by a
peace made under the auspices of Innocent VIII. on the 11th August,
1486, which seems absolutely to have lasted till 1494, when we find the
two cousins at open war with the new Pope Alexander VI.
Far more important contests, however, were at hand, the progress of
which led to the youthful daughter of the house being treated, while
yet in her fifth year, as part of the family capital, to be made use of
for the advancement of the family interests, and thus fixed the destiny
of her life.
When Charles VIII. passed through Rome on his march against Naples at
the end of 1494, the Colonna cousins sided with him; placed themselves
under his banners, and contributed materially to aid his successful
invasion. But on his flight from Naples in 1495, they suddenly changed
sides, and took service under Ferdinand II. The fact of this change
of party, which to our ideas seems to require so much explanation,
probably appeared to their contemporaries a perfectly simple matter;
for it is mentioned as such without any word of the motives or causes
of it. Perhaps they merely sought to sever themselves from a losing
game. Possibly, as we find them rewarded for their adherence to the
King of Naples by the grant of a great number of fiefs previously
possessed by the Orsini, who were on the other side, they were induced
to change their allegiance by the hope of obtaining those possessions,
and by the Colonna instinct of enmity to the Orsini race. Ferdinand,
however, was naturally anxious to have some better hold over his new
friends than that furnished by their own oaths of fealty; and with
this view caused the infant Vittoria to be betrothed to his subject,
Ferdinand d'Avalos, son of Alphonso, Marquis of Pescara, a child of
about the same age as the little bride.
[Sidenote: HER EARLY TRAINING.]
Little, as it must appear to our modern notions, as the child's future
happiness could have been cared for in the stipulation of a contract
entered into from such motives, it so turned out, that nothing could
have more effectually secured it. To Vittoria's parents, if any doubts
on such a point had presented themselves to their minds, it would
doubtless have appeared abundantly sufficient to know, that the rank
and position of the affianced bridegroom were such, as to secure their
daughter one of the highest places among the nobility of the court of
Naples, and the enjoyment of vast and wide-spread possessions. But to
Vittoria herself all this would not have been enough. And the earliest
and most important advantage arising to her from her betrothal was the
bringing her under the influence of that training, which made her such
a woman, as could not find her happiness in such matters.
We are told, that henceforth, that is, after the betrothal, she was
educated, together with her future husband, in the island of Ischia,
under the care of the widowed Duchessa di Francavilla, the young
Pescara's elder sister. Costanza d'Avalos, duchessa de Francavilla,
appears to have been one of the most remarkable women of her time. When
her father Alphonso, Marchesa di Pescara, lost his life by the treason
of a black slave on the 7th of September, 1495, leaving Ferdinand his
son the heir to his titles and estates, an infant five years old, then
quite recently betrothed to Vittoria, the Duchessa di Francavilla
assumed the entire direction and governance of the family. So high
was her reputation for prudence, energy, and trust-worthiness in every
way, that on the death of her husband, King Ferdinand made her governor
and "châtelaine" of Ischia, one of the most important keys of the
kingdom. Nor were her gifts and qualities only such as were calculated
to fit her for holding such a post. Her contemporary, Caterina Sforza,
would have made a "châtelaine" as vigilant, as prudent, as brave and
energetic as Costanza. But the Neapolitan lady was something more than
this.
Intellectual culture had been held in honour at Naples during the
entire period of the Arragonese dynasty. All the princes of that house,
with the exception, perhaps, of Alphonso, the father of Ferdinand
II., had been lovers of literature and patrons of learning. Of this
Ferdinand II., under whose auspices the young Pescara was betrothed to
Vittoria, and who chose the Duchessa di Francavilla as his governor in
Ischia, it is recorded, that when returning in triumph to his kingdom
after the retreat of the French, he rode into Naples with the Marchese
de Pescara on his right hand, and the poet Cariteo on his left. Poets
and their art especially were welcomed in that literary court; and the
tastes and habits of the Neapolitan nobles were at that period probably
more tempered by those studies, which humanise the mind and manners,
than the chivalry of any other part of Italy.
Among this cultured society Costanza d'Avalos was eminent for
culture, and admirably qualified in every respect to make an
invaluable protectress and friend to her youthful sister-in-law. The
transplantation, indeed, of the infant Colonna from her native feudal
castle to the Duchessa di Francavilla's home in Ischia, was a change
so complete and so favourable, that it may be fairly supposed, that
without it the young Roman girl would not have grown into the woman she
did.
[Sidenote: HER BETROTHAL.]
For in truth Marino, little calculated, as it will be supposed, such
a stronghold of the ever turbulent Colonna was at any time to afford
the means and opportunity for intellectual culture, became shortly
after the period of Vittoria's betrothal to the heir of the D'Avalos,
wholly unfit to offer her even a safe home. Whether it continued to
be the residence of Agnes, while her husband Fabrizio was fighting
in Naples, and her daughter was under the care of the Duchessa di
Francavilla in Ischia, has not been recorded. But we find that when
Fabrizio had deserted the French king, and ranged himself on the side
of Ferdinand of Naples, he was fully aware of the danger to which his
castles would be exposed at the hands of the French troops as they
passed through Rome on their way to or from Naples. To provide against
this, he had essayed to place them in safety by consigning them as a
deposit in trust to the Sacred College.[155] But Pope Borgia, deeming,
probably, that he might find the means of possessing himself of some
of the estates in question, refused to permit this, ordering that they
should, instead, be delivered into his keeping. On this being refused,
he ordered Marino to be levelled to the ground. And Guicciardini
writes,[156] that the Colonna, having placed garrisons in Amelici and
Rocca di Papa, two other of the family strongholds, abandoned all
the rest of the possessions in the Roman States. It seems probable,
therefore, that Agnes accompanied her husband and daughter to Naples.
Subsequently the same historian relates,[157] that Marino was burned by
order of Clement VII. in 1526. So that it must be supposed, that the
order of Alexander for its utter destruction in 1501 was not wholly
carried into execution.
The kingdom and city of Naples was during this time by no means without
a large share of the turmoil and warfare that was vexing every part
of Italy. Yet whosoever had his lot cast during those years elsewhere
than in Rome, was in some degree fortunate. And considering the general
state of the Peninsula, and her own social position and connections,
Vittoria may be deemed very particularly so to have found a safe
retreat, and an admirably governed home on the rock of Ischia. In
after life we find her clinging to it with tenacious affection, and
dedicating more than one sonnet to the remembrances which made it
sacred to her. And though in her widowhood her memory naturally most
frequently recurs to the happy years of her married life there, the
remote little island had at least as strong a claim upon her affections
as the home of her childhood. For to the years there passed under
the care of her noble sister-in-law, Costanza d'Avalos, she owed the
possibility, that the daughter of a Roman chieftain, who passed his
life in harrying others and being harried himself, and in acquiring as
a "condottiere" captain the reputation of one of the first soldiers
of his day, could become either morally or intellectually the woman
Vittoria Colonna became.
CHAPTER II.
Vittoria's Personal Appearance—First Love—A Noble Soldier of
Fortune—Italian Wars of the Fifteenth and Sixteenth Centuries—The
Colonna Fortunes—Death of Ferdinand II.—The Neapolitans carry Coals
to Newcastle—Events in Ischia—Ferdinand of Spain in Naples—Life
in Naples in the Sixteenth Century—Marriage of Pescara with
Vittoria—Marriage Presents.
From the time of her betrothal in 1495 to that of her marriage in
1509, history altogether loses sight of Vittoria. We must suppose her
to be quietly and happily growing from infancy to adolescence under
the roof of Costanza d'Avalos, the _châtelaine_ of Ischia, sharing the
studies of her future husband and present playmate, and increasing, as
in stature, so in every grace both of mind and body. The young Pescara
seems also to have profited by the golden opportunities offered him
of becoming something better than a mere _preux chevalier_. A taste
for literature, and especially for poesy, was then a ruling fashion
among the nobles of the court of Naples. And the young Ferdinand,
of whose personal beauty and knightly accomplishments we hear much,
manifested also excellent qualities of disposition and intelligence.
His biographer Giovio[158] tells us that his beard was auburn, his nose
aquiline, his eyes large and fiery when excited, but mild and gentle at
other times. He was, however, considered proud, adds Bishop Giovio, on
account of his haughty carriage, the little familiarity of his manners,
and his grave and brief fashion of speech.
[Sidenote: HER MARRIAGE.]
To his playmate Vittoria, the companion of his studies and hours of
recreation, this sterner mood was doubtless modified; and with all the
good gifts attributed to him, it was natural enough that before the
time had come for consummating the infant betrothal, the union planned
for political purposes had changed itself into a veritable love-match.
The affection seems to have been equal on either side; and Vittoria,
if we are to believe the concurrent testimony of nearly all the poets
and literateurs of her day, must have been beautiful and fascinating
in no ordinary degree. The most authentic portrait[159] of her is one
preserved in the Colonna gallery at Rome, supposed to be a copy by
Girolamo Muziano, from an original picture by some artist of higher
note. It is a beautiful face of the true Roman type, perfectly regular,
of exceeding purity of outline, and perhaps a little heavy about the
lower part of the face. But the calm, large, thoughtful eye, and the
superbly developed forehead, secure it from any approach towards an
expression of sensualism. The fulness of the lip is only sufficient
to indicate that sensitiveness to, and appreciation of beauty, which
constitutes an essential element in the poetical temperament. The hair
is of that bright golden tint that Titian loved so well to paint;
and its beauty has been especially recorded by more than one of her
contemporaries. The poet Galeazzo da Tarsia, who professed himself,
after the fashion of the time, her most fervent admirer and devoted
slave, recurs in many passages of his poems to those fascinating
"chiome d'oro;" as where he sings, with more enthusiasm than taste, of
the
"Trecce d'or, che in gli alti giri,
Non è ch'unqua pareggi o sole o stella;"
or again, where he tells us, that the sun and his lady-love appeared
"Ambi con chiome d'or lucide e terse."
But the testimony of graver writers, lay and clerical, is not wanting
to induce us to believe, that Vittoria in her prime really might be
considered "the most beautiful woman of her day" with more truth
than that hackneyed phrase often conveys. So when at length the
Colonna seniors, and the Duchessa di Francavilla thought, that the
fitting moment had arrived for carrying into effect the long-standing
engagement—which was not till 1509, when the _promessi sposi_ were
both in their nineteenth year—the young couple were thoroughly in love
with each other, and went to the altar with every prospect of wedded
happiness.
But during these quiet years of study and development in little
rock-bound Ischia, the world without was anything but quiet, as
the outline of Neapolitan history in the last chapter sufficiently
indicates; and Fabrizio Colonna was ever in the thick of the confusion.
As long as the Aragonese monarchs kept up the struggle, he fought for
them upon the losing side; but when, after the retreat of Frederick,
the last of them, the contest was between the French and the Spaniards,
he chose the latter, which proved to be the winning side. Frederick,
on abandoning Naples, threw himself on the hospitality of the King
of France, an enemy much less hated by him than was Ferdinand of
Spain, who had so shamefully deceived and betrayed him. But his high
Constable, Fabrizio Colonna, not sharing, as it should seem, his
sovereign's feelings on the subject, transferred his allegiance to the
King of Spain. And again, this change of fealty and service seems to
have been considered so much in the usual course of things, that it
elicits no remark from the contemporary writers.
In fact, the noble Fabrizio, the bearer of a grand old Italian name,
the lord of many a powerful barony, and owner of many a mile of fair
domain, a Roman patrician of pure Italian race, to whom, if to any,
the honour, the independence, the interests, and the name of Italy
should have been dear, was a mere Captain of free lances,—a soldier
of fortune, ready to sell his blood and great military talents in the
best market. The best of his fellow nobles in all parts of Italy were
the same. Their profession was fighting. And mere fighting, in whatever
cause, so it were bravely and knightly done, was the most honoured and
noblest profession of that day. So much of real greatness as could be
imparted to the profession of war, by devotion to a _person_, might
occasionally—though not very frequently in Italy—have been met with
among the soldiers of that period. But all those elements of genuine
heroism, which are generated by devotion to a _cause_, and all those
ideas of patriotism, of resistance to wrong, and assertion of human
rights, which compel the philosopher and philanthropist to admit that
war may sometimes be righteous, noble, elevating, to those engaged in
it, and prolific of high thoughts and great deeds, were wholly unknown
to the chivalry of Italy at the time in question.
[Sidenote: MEDIEVAL WARFARE.]
And, indeed, as far as the feeling of nationality is concerned, the
institution of knighthood itself, as it then existed, was calculated
to prevent the growth of patriotic sentiment. For the commonwealth
of chivalry was of European extent. The knights of England, France,
Italy, Spain, and Germany, were brothers in arms, linked together
by a community of thought and sentiment infinitely stronger than
any which bound them to the other classes of their own countrymen.
The aggregation of caste wholly overbore that of nationality. And
the nature of the former, though not wholly evil in its influences,
any more than that of the latter is wholly good, is yet infinitely
narrower, less humanising, and less ennobling in its action on human
motives and conduct. And war, the leading aggregative occupation of
those days, was proportionably narrowed in its scope, deteriorated
in its influences, and rendered incapable of supplying that stimulus
to healthy human development which it has in its more noble forms,
indisputably sometimes furnished to mankind.
And it is important to the great history of modern civilisation, that
these truths should be recognised and clearly understood. For this
same period, which is here in question, was, as all know, one of great
intellectual activity, of rapid development, and of fruitful progress.
And historical speculators on these facts, finding this unusual
movement of mind contemporaneous with a time of almost universal and
unceasing warfare, have thought, that some of the producing causes of
the former fact were to be found in the existence of the latter; and
have argued, that the general ferment, and stirring up, produced by
these chivalrous, but truly ignoble wars, assisted mainly in generating
that exceptionally fervid condition of the human mind. But, admitting
that a time of national struggle for some worthy object may probably be
found to exercise such an influence, as that attributed to the Italian
wars of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, it is certain that these
latter were of no such ennobling nature. And the causes of the great
intellectual movement of those centuries must therefore be sought
elsewhere.
From the time when "il gran Capitano" Consalvo, on behalf of his
master, Ferdinand of Spain, having previously assisted the French in
driving out the unfortunate Frederick, the last of the Aragonese kings
of Naples, had afterwards finally succeeded in expelling the French
from their share of the stolen kingdom, the affairs of the Colonna
cousins, Fabrizio and Prospero, began to brighten. The last French
troops quitted Naples on January 1, 1504. By a diploma, bearing date
November 15, 1504,[160] and still preserved among the Colonna archives,
eighteen baronies were conferred on Prospero Colonna by Ferdinand. On
the 28th of the same month, all the fiefs which Fabrizio had formerly
possessed in the Abruzzi were restored to him; and by another deed,
dated the same day, thirty-three others, in the Abruzzi and the Terra
di Lavoro, were bestowed on him.
In the meantime, earth had been relieved from the presence of the
Borgia Vicegerent of heaven, and Julius II. reigned in his stead.
By him the Colonna were relieved from their excommunication, and
restored to all their Roman possessions. So that the news of the family
fortunes, which from time to time reached the daughter of the house in
her happy retirement in rocky Ischia, from the period at which she
began to be of an age to appreciate the importance of such matters,
were altogether favourable.
[Sidenote: AFFAIRS IN NAPLES.]
But the tranquil life there during these years was not unbroken by
sympathy with the vicissitudes which were variously affecting the
excitable city, over which the little recluse court looked from their
island home. The untimely death of Ferdinand II., on Friday, October 7,
1496, threw the first deep shade over the household of the Duchessa di
Francavilla, which had crossed it since Vittoria had become its inmate.
Never, according to the contemporary journalist, Giuliano Passeri,[161]
was prince more truly lamented by his people of every class. Almost
immediately after his marriage, the young king and his wife both
fell ill at Somma, near Naples. The diarist describes the melancholy
spectacle of the two biers, supporting the sick king and queen,
entering their capital side by side. Everything that the science of the
time could suggest, even to the carrying in procession of the head as
well as the blood of St. Januarius, was tried in vain. The young king,
of whom so much was hoped, died; and there arose throughout the city,
writes Passeri, "a cry of weeping so great, that it seemed as if the
whole world were falling in ruin, all, both great and small, male and
female, crying aloud to heaven for pity. So that I truly think, that
since God made the world, a greater weeping than this was never known."
Then came the great Jubilee year, 1500; on which occasion a
circumstance occurred, that set all Naples talking. It was discussed,
we may shrewdly conjecture, in a somewhat different spirit in that
Ischia household, which most interests us, from the tone in which
the excitable city chattered of it. At the beginning of April,[162]
the Neapolitans, in honour of the great Jubilee, sent a deputation,
carrying with them the celebrated Virgin, della Bruna dello Carmine,
who justified her reputation, and did credit to her country by
working innumerable miracles all the way as she went. But what was
the mortification of her bearers, when arrived at Rome, the result
of the fame arising from their triumphant progress was, that Pope
Borgia, jealous of a foreign Virgin, which might divert the alms of the
faithful from the Roman begging boxes, showed himself so thorough a
protectionist of the home manufacture, that he ordered the Neapolitan
Virgin to be carried back again immediately. This had to be done; but
Madonna della Bruna, nothing daunted, worked miracles faster than ever
as she was being carried off, and continued to do so all the way home.
In July, 1501, there came a guest to the dwelling of Costanza
d'Avalos, whose coming and going must have made a durable impression
on the opening mind of Vittoria, then just eleven years old. This was
Frederick, the last of the Aragonese kings. When all had gone against
him, and the French had taken, and most cruelly sacked Capua, and were
advancing on Naples,[163] he sought refuge with his wife and children
on the Island of Ischia, and remained there till he left it on the 6th
of September to throw himself on the generosity of the French King.
Fabrizio Colonna was, it is recorded, with him on the island, where
the fallen king left for awhile his wife and children; and had then an
opportunity of seeing,—as far as the brave _condottiere_ chieftain
had eyes to see such matters,—the progress his daughter had made in
all graces and good gifts during six years of the superintendence of
Costanza d'Avalos.
[Sidenote: FERDINAND LANDS IN NAPLES.]
Then there came occasionally events, which doubtless called the
Duchessa di Francavilla from her retirement to the neighbouring, but
strongly contrasted scene of Naples; and in all probability furnished
opportunities of showing her young pupil something of the great and gay
world of the brilliant and always noisy capital. Such, for instance,
was the entry of Ferdinand of Spain into Naples, on November I, 1506.
The same people, who so recently were making the greatest lamentation
ever heard in the world over the death of Ferdinand of Aragon, were now
equally loud and vehement[164] in their welcome to his false usurping
kinsman, Ferdinand of Castile. A pier was run out an hundred paces into
the sea for him and his queen to land at, and a tabernacle, "all of
fine wrought gold," says Passeri, erected on it for him to rest in. The
city wall was thrown down to make a new passage for his entrance into
the city; all Naples was gay with triumphal arches and hangings. The
mole, writes the same gossiping authority, was so crowded, that a grain
of millet thrown among them would not have reached the ground. Nothing
was to be heard in all Naples but the thunder of cannon, and nothing
to be seen but velvet, silk, and brocade, and gold on all sides. The
streets were lined with richly tapestried seats, filled with all the
noble dames of Naples, who, as the royal cortege passed, rose, and
advancing, kissed the hands of the king, "et lo signore Re di questo
si pigliava gran piacere." It is a characteristic incident of the
times, that as quick as the cortege passed, all the rich and costly
preparations for its passage were, as Passeri tells us, scrambled for
and made booty of by the populace.
The Duchessa di Francavilla, at least, who had witnessed the melancholy
departure of Frederick from her own roof, when he went forth a wanderer
from his lost kingdom, must have felt the hollowness and little worth
of all this noisy demonstration, if none other among the assembled
crowd felt it. And it may easily be imagined how she moralised the
scene to the lovely blonde girl at her side, now at sixteen, in the
first bloom of her beauty, as they returned, tired with the unwonted
fatigue of their gala doings, to their quiet home in Ischia.
Here is a specimen from the pages of the gossiping weaver,[165] of the
sort of subjects which were the talk of the day in Naples in those
times.
In December, 1507, a certain Spaniard, Pietro de Pace, by name, a
hunchback, and much deformed, but who "was of high courage, and in
terrestrial matters had no fear of spirits or of venomous animals,"
determined to explore the caverns of Pozzuoli; and discovered in them
several bronze statues and medals, and antique lamps. He found also
some remains of leaden pipes, on one of which the words "Imperator
Cæsar" were legible. Moreover, he saw "certain lizards as large
as vipers." But for all this, Pietro considered his adventure an
unsuccessful one; for he had hoped to find hidden treasure in the
caverns.
[Sidenote: FIRE AT ST. CLARE.]
Then there was barely time for this nine days' wonder to run out its
natural span, before a very much more serious matter was occupying
every mind, and making every tongue wag in Naples. On the night
preceding Christmas day, in the year 1507, the Convent of St. Clare
was discovered to be on fire. The building was destroyed, and the
nuns, belonging mostly to noble Neapolitan families, were burnt out
of their holy home;—distressing enough on many accounts. But still
it was not altogether the misfortune of these holy ladies that spread
consternation throughout the city. It was the practice, it seems, for
a great number of the possessors of valuables of all sorts, "Baruni
od altri," as Passeri says,[166] in his homely Neapolitan dialect, to
provide against the continual dangers to which moveable property was
exposed, by consigning their goods to the keeping of some religious
community. And the nuns of St. Clare, especially, were very largely
employed in this way. The consequence was, that the almost incredibly
large amount of three hundred thousand ducats worth of valuable
articles of all sorts was destroyed in this disastrous fire. Taking
into consideration the difference in the value of money, this sum must
be calculated to represent at least a million and a half sterling of
our money. And it is necessary to bear in mind how large a proportion
of a rich man's wealth in those days consisted in chattels to render
the estimate of the loss at all credible.
The prices, however, at which certain of the products of artistic
industry were then estimated, were such as to render such an
accumulation of property possible enough. For instance, among the
valuables recorded by Passeri as belonging to Ferdinand of Aragon I.,
were three pieces of tapestry, which were called "La Pastorella," and
were considered to be worth 130,000 ducats.
And thus the years rolled on; Naples gradually settling down into
tranquillity under the Spanish rule, administered by the first of the
long list of viceroys, the "Gran Capitano," Don Consalvo de Corduba,
and the star of the Colonna shining more steadily than ever in the
ascendant, till in the year 1509, the nineteenth of Vittoria's and of
the bridegroom's age, it was determined to celebrate the long arranged
marriage.
It took place on the 27th of December in that year; and Passeri
mentions,[167] that Vittoria came to Ischia from Marino on the
occasion, escorted by a large company of Roman nobles. It appears,
therefore, that she must have quitted Ischia previously. But it is
probable that she did so only for a short visit to her native home,
before finally settling in her husband's country.
The marriage festival was held in Ischia with all the pomp then usual
on such occasions; and that, as will be seen in a subsequent page, from
the accounts preserved by Passeri of another wedding, at which Vittoria
was present, was a serious matter. The only particulars recorded for
us of her own marriage ceremony consist of two lists of the presents
reciprocally made by the bride and bridegroom. These have been printed
from the original documents in the Colonna archives by Signor Visconti,
and are curious illustrations of the habits and manners of that day.
[Sidenote: HER TROUSSEAU.]
The Marquis acknowledges to have received, says the document, from the
Lord Fabrizio Colonna and the Lady Vittoria,
1. A bed of French fashion, with the curtains and all the hangings of
crimson satin, lined with blue taffetas with large fringes of gold;
with three mattresses and a counterpane of crimson satin of similar
workmanship; and four pillows of crimson satin garnished with fringes
and tassels of gold.
2. A cloak of crimson raised brocade.
3. A cloak of black raised brocade, and white silk.
4. A cloak of purple velvet and purple brocade.
5. A cross of diamonds and a housing for a mule of wrought gold.
The other document sets forth the presents offered by Pescara to his
bride:—
1. A cross of diamonds with a chain of gold of the value of 1000 ducats.
2. A ruby, a diamond, and an emerald set in gold, of the value of 400
ducats.
3. A "desciorgh" of gold (whatever that may be) of the value of 100
ducats.
4. Twelve bracelets of gold, of the value of 40 ducats.
Then follow fifteen articles of female dress, gowns, petticoats,
mantles, skirts, and various other finery with strange names, only
to be explained by the ghost of some sixteenth century milliner, and
altogether ignored by Ducange, and all other lexicographers. But
they are described as composed of satin, velvet, brocade; besides
crimson velvet trimmed with gold fringe, and lined with ermine;
and flesh-coloured silk petticoats, trimmed with black velvet. The
favourite colour appears to be decidedly crimson.
It is noticeable, that while all the more valuable presents of Pescara
to Vittoria are priced, nothing is said of the value of her gifts to
the bridegroom. Are we to see in this an indication of a greater
delicacy of feeling on the part of the lady?
So the priests did their office—a part of the celebration, which,
curiously enough, we learn from Passeri, was often in those days at
Naples, deferred, sometimes for years, till after the consummation of
the marriage—the Pantagruelian feastings were got through, the guests
departed, boat-load after boat-load, from the rocky shore of Ischia;
and the little island, restored after the unusual hubbub to its wonted
quiet, was left to be the scene of as happy a honeymoon as the most
romantic of novel readers could wish for her favourite heroine.
CHAPTER III.
Vittoria's Married Life—Pescara goes where Glory Waits Him—The
Rout of Ravenna—Pescara in Prison turns Penman—His "Dialogo di
amore"—Vittoria's Poetical Epistle to her Husband—Vittoria and the
Marchese del Vasto—Three Cart-loads of Ladies, and three Mule-loads
of Sweetmeats—Character of Pescara—His Cruelty—Anecdote in Proof of
it.
The two years which followed, Vittoria always looked back on as the
only truly happy portion of her life, and many are the passages of her
poems which recall their tranquil and unbroken felicity, a sweet dream,
from which she was too soon to be awakened to the ordinary vicissitudes
of sixteenth century life. The happiest years of individuals, as of
nations, afford least materials for history, and of Vittoria's two
years of honeymoon in Ischia, the whole record is that she was happy;
and she wrote no poetry.
Early in 1512 came the waking from this pleasant dream. Pescara was,
of course, to be a soldier. In his position not to have begun to
fight, as soon as his beard was fairly grown, would have been little
short of infamy. So he set forth to join the army in Lombardy, in
company with his father-in-law, Fabrizio. Of course there was an army
in Lombardy, where towns were being besieged, fields laid waste, and
glory to be had for the winning. There always was, in those good old
times of course. French, Swiss, Spanish, German, Venetian, Papal, and
Milanese troops were fighting each other, with changes of alliances
and sides almost as frequent and as confusing as the changing of
partners in a cotillion. It is troublesome and not of much consequence
to understand who were just then friends and who foes, and what were
the exact objects all the different parties had in cutting each other's
throats. And it will be quite sufficient to say that the Duchy of Milan
was at that moment the chief bone of contention,—that the principal
pretenders to the glory of "annexing" it were the King of France and
the King of Spain, who was now also King of Naples—that the Pope was
just then allied with Spain, and the Venetians with France, and that
Italy generally was preparing for the destiny she has worked out for
herself, by the constant endeavour to avail herself of the destroying
presence of these foreign troops, and their rivalries, for the
prosecution of her internal quarrels, and the attainment of equally low
and yet more unjustifiable, because fratricidal aims.
Pescara, as a Neapolitan subject of the King of Spain, joined the army
opposed to the French, under the walls of Ravenna. Vittoria, though her
subsequent writings prove how much the parting cost her, showed how
thoroughly she was a soldier's daughter and a soldier's wife. There had
been some suggestion, it seems, that the marquis, as the sole surviving
scion of an ancient and noble name, might fairly consider it his duty
not to subject it to the risk of extinction by exposing his life in the
field. The young soldier, however, wholly refused to listen to such
counsels; and his wife strongly supported his view of the course honour
counselled him to follow, by advice, which a young and beautiful wife,
who was to remain surrounded by a brilliant circle of wits and poets,
would scarcely have ventured on offering, had she not felt a perfect
security from all danger of being misinterpreted, equally creditable to
wife and husband.
[Sidenote: PESCARA JOINS THE ARMY.]
So the young soldier took for a motto on his shield, the well-known
"With this, or on this;" and having expended, we are told, much care
and cash on a magnificent equipment, was at once appointed to the
command of the light cavalry. The knowledge and experience necessary
for such a position comes by nature, it must be supposed, to the
descendant of a long line of noble knights, as surely as pointing
does to the scion of a race of pointers. But the young warrior's
episcopal[168] biographer cursorily mentions, that certain old and
trusty veterans, who had obtained their military science by experience,
and not by right of birth, were attached to his person.
The general of light cavalry arrived at the camp at an unfortunate
moment. The total defeat of the United Spanish and Papal army by the
French before Ravenna on the 9th of April, 1512, immediately followed.
Fabrizio Colonna and his son-in-law were both made prisoners. The
latter had been left for dead on the field, covered with wounds, which
subsequently gave occasion to Isabella of Aragon, Duchess of Milan,
to say, "I would fain be a man, Signor Marchese, if it were only to
receive such wounds as yours in the face, that I might see if they
would become me as they do you."[169]
Pescara, when picked up from the field, was carried a prisoner to
Milan, where, by means of the good offices and powerful influence of
Trivulzio, who had married Beatrice d'Avalos, Pescara's aunt, and was
now a general in the service of France, his detention was rendered as
little disagreeable as possible, and he was, as soon as his wounds were
healed, permitted to ransom himself for six thousand ducats.[170]
During his short confinement he amused his leisure by composing a
"Dialogo d'Amore," which he inscribed and sent to his wife. The Bishop
of Como, his biographer, testifies that this work was exceedingly
pleasant reading—"summæ jucunditatis"—and full of grave and witty
conceits and thoughts. The world, however, has seen fit to allow this
treasury of wit to perish, notwithstanding the episcopal criticism.
And in all probability the world was in the right. If, indeed, the
literary general of light horse had written his own real thoughts and
speculations on love, there might have been some interest in seeing a
sixteenth century soldier's views on that ever interesting subject. But
we may be quite certain, that the Dialogo, "stuffed full," as Giovio
says, "of grave sentiments and exquisite conceits," contained only a
reproduction of the classic banalities, and ingenious absurdities,
which were current in the fashionable literature of the day. Yet it
must be admitted, that the employment of his leisure in any such
manner, and still more, the dedication of his labours on such a subject
to his wife, are indications of an amount of cultivation and right
feeling, which would hardly have been found, either one or the other,
among many of the preux chevaliers, his brothers-in-arms.
[Sidenote: EPISTLE TO HER HUSBAND.]
Meanwhile, Vittoria, on her part, wrote a poetical epistle to her
husband in prison, which is the first production of her pen that has
reached us. It is written in Dante's "terza rima," and consists of
112 lines. Both Italian and French critics have expressed highly
favourable judgments of this little poem. And it may be admitted that
the lines are elegant, classical, well-turned, and ingenious. But
those who seek something more than all this in poetry—who look for
passion, high and noble thoughts, happy illustration or deep analysis
of human feeling, will find nothing of the sort. That Vittoria did feel
acutely her husband's misfortune, and bitterly regret his absence from
her, there is every reason to believe. But she is unable to express
these sentiments naturally or forcibly. She, in all probability made
no attempt to do so, judging from the models on which she had been
taught to form her style, that when she sat down to make poetry, the
aim to be kept in view was a very different one. Hence we have talk
of Hector and Achilles, Eolus, Sirens, and marine deities, Pompey,
Cornelia, Cato, Martia, and Mithridates—a parade of all the treasures
of the schoolroom. The pangs of the wife left lonely in her home are in
neatly antithetical phrase contrasted with the dangers and toils of the
husband in the field. Then we have a punning allusion to her own name:—
"Se Vittoria volevi, io t'era appresso;
Ma tu, lasciando me, lasciasti lei."
"If victory was thy desire, I was by thy side; but in leaving me, thou
didst leave also her."
The best, because the simplest and most natural lines are the
following:—
"Seguir si deve il sposo e dentro e fora;
E, s'egli pate affanno, ella patisca;
Se lieto, lieta; e se vi more, mora.
A quel che arrisca l'un, l'altro s'arrisca;
Eguali in vita, eguali siano in morte;
E ciò che avviene a lui, a lei sortisca."
"At home or abroad the wife should follow her husband; and if he
suffers distress, she should suffer; should be joyful if he is joyful,
and should die if he dies. The danger confronted by the one should be
confronted by the other; equals in life, they should be equal in death;
and that which happens to him should be her lot also,"—a mere farrago
of rhetorical prettinesses, as cold as a school-boy's prize verses, and
unanimated by a spark of genuine feeling; although the writer was as
truly affectionate a wife as ever man had.
But, although all that Vittoria wrote, and all that the vast number of
the poets and poetesses, her contemporaries, wrote, was obnoxious to
the same remarks; still it will be seen, that in the maturity of her
powers she could do better than this. Her religious poetry may be said,
generally, to be much superior to her love verses; either because they
were composed when her mind had grown to its full stature, or, as seems
probable, because, model wife as she was, the subject took a deeper
hold of her mind, and stirred the depths of her heart more powerfully.
Very shortly after the despatch of her poetical epistle, Vittoria was
overjoyed by the unexpected return of her husband. And again for a
brief interval she considered herself the happiest of women.
One circumstance indeed there was to mar the entirety of her
contentment. She was still childless. And it seems, that the science of
that day, ignorantly dogmatical, undertook to assert, that she would
continue to be so. Both husband and wife seem to have submitted to
the award undoubtingly; and the dictum, however rashly uttered, was
justified by the event.
[Sidenote: MARCHESE DEL VASTO.]
Under these circumstances, Vittoria undertook the education of Alphonso
d'Avalos, Marchese del Vasto, a young cousin of her husband's. The
task was a sufficiently arduous one;[171] for the boy, beautiful, it
is recorded, as an angel, and endowed with excellent capabilities of
all sorts, was so wholly unbroken, and of so violent and ungovernable
a disposition, that he had been the despair and terror of all who had
hitherto attempted to educate him. Vittoria thought that she saw in the
wild and passionate boy the materials of a worthy man. The event fully
justified her judgment, and proved the really superior powers of mind
she must have brought to the accomplishment of it. Alphonso became a
soldier of renown, not untinctured by those literary tastes which so
remarkably distinguished his gentle preceptress. A strong and lasting
affection grew between them; and Vittoria, proud with good reason of
her work, was often wont to say, that the reproach of being childless
ought not to be deemed applicable to her whose moral nature might well
be said to have brought forth that of her pupil.
Pescara's visit to Naples was a very short one. Early in 1513, we find
him again with the armies in Lombardy, taking part in most of the
mischief and glory going.
Under the date of July the 4th in that year, the gossiping Naples
weaver, who rarely fails to note the doings of the Neapolitan General
of light horse with infinite pride and admiration, has preserved for
us a rather picturesque little bit of Ariosto-flavoured camp life. The
Spanish army, under Don Raymond di Cardona, who, on Consalvo's death
had succeeded him as Viceroy of Naples, was on its march from Peshiera
to Verona, when a messenger from the beautiful young Marchioness of
Mantua came to the General-in-chief to say that she wished to see
those celebrated Spanish troops, who were marching under his banners,
and was then waiting their passage in the vineyards of the Castle of
Villafranca. "A certain gentle lady of Mantua, named the Signora Laura,
with whom Don Raymond was in love," writes the weaver, was with the
Marchioness; and much pleased was he at the message. So word was passed
to the various captains; and when the column reached the spot, where
the Marchioness with a great number of ladies and cavaliers of Mantua
were reposing in the shade of the vines, "Don Ferrante d'Alarcone, as
Chief Marshal, with his bâton in his hand made all the troops halt,
and place themselves in order of battle; and the Signor Marchese di
Pescara marched at the head of the infantry, with a pair of breeches
cut after the Swiss fashion, and a plume on his head, and a two-handed
sword in his hand, and all the standards were unfurled." And when the
Marchioness from among the vines looking down through the chequered
shade on to the road saw that all was in order, she and her ladies
got into three carts, so that there came out of the vineyard, says
Passeri, three cartsful of ladies surrounded by the cavaliers of Mantua
on horseback. There they came very slowly jolting over the cultivated
ground, those three heavy bullock carts, with their primitive wheels of
one solid circular piece of wood, and their huge cream-coloured oxen
with enormous horned heads gaily decorated, as Leopold Robert shows
them to us, and the brilliant tinted dresses of the laughing bevy drawn
by them, glancing gaudily in the sunlight among the soberer colouring
of the vineyards in their summer pride of green. Then Don Raymond and
Pescara advanced to the carts, and handed from them the Marchioness
and Donna Laura, who mounted on handsomely equipped jennets prepared
for them. It does not appear that this attention was extended to any
of the other ladies, who must therefore be supposed to have remained
sitting in the carts, while the Marchioness and the favoured Donna
Laura rode through the ranks "con multa festa et gloria." And when she
had seen all, with much pleasure and admiration, on a given signal
three mules loaded with sweetmeats were led forward, with which the
gay Marchioness "regaled all the captains." Then all the company with
much content,—excepting, it is to be feared, the soldiers, who had
to stand at arms under the July sun, while their officers were eating
sugar-plums, and Don Raymond and Donna Laura were saying and swallowing
sweet things,—took leave of each other, the army pursuing its march
towards Verona, and the Marchioness and her ladies returning in their
carts to Mantua.[172]
[Sidenote: A REVIEW.]
The other scattered notices of Pescara's doings during his campaign
are of a less festive character. They show him to have been a hard
and cruel man, reckless of human suffering, and eminent even among
his fellow captains for the ferocity, and often wantonness of the
ravages and wide-spread misery he wrought. On more than one occasion,
Passeri winds up his narrative of some destruction of a town, or
desolation of a fertile and cultivated district, by the remark, that
the cruelty committed was worse than Turks would have been guilty of.
Yet this same Passeri, an artisan, belonging to a class which had
all to suffer and nothing to gain from such atrocities, writes, when
chronicling this same Pescara's[173] death, that "on that day died,
I would have you know, gentle readers, the most glorious and honoured
captain that the world has seen for the last hundred years." It is
curious to observe how wholly the popular mind was enslaved to the
prejudices and conventional absurdities of the ruling classes; how
entirely the feelings of the masses were in unison with those of the
caste which oppressed them; how little reason they conceived they had
to complain under the most intolerable treatment, and how little hope
of progressive amelioration there was from the action of native-bred
public opinion.
Bishop Giovio, the biographer and panegyrist of Pescara admits, that he
was a stern and cruelly-severe disciplinarian; and mentions an anecdote
in proof of it. A soldier was brought before him for having entered a
house _en route_ for the purpose of plundering. The General ordered
that his ears should be cut off. The culprit remonstrated; and begged,
with many entreaties, to be spared so dishonouring and ignominious a
punishment, saying in his distress that death itself would have been
more tolerable.
"The grace demanded is granted," rejoined Pescara instantly, with grim
pleasantry. "Take this soldier, who is so careful of his honour, and
hang him to that tree!"
In vain did the wretch beg not to be taken at his word so cruelly, no
entreaties sufficed to change the savage decree.
[Sidenote: PESCARA'S CHARACTER.]
It will be well that we should bear in mind these indications of the
essential nature of this great and glorious captain, who had studied
those ingenuous arts which soften the character, and do not suffer men
to be ferocious, as the poet assures us, and who could write dialogues
on love, when we come to consider the curious phenomenon of Vittoria's
unmeasured love for her husband.
CHAPTER IV.
Society in Ischia.—Bernardo Tasso's sonnet thereon.—How a
wedding was celebrated at Naples in 1517.—A Sixteenth Century
trousseau.—Sack of Genoa.—The Battle of Pavia.—Italian conspiracy
against Charles V.—Character of Pescara.—Honour in 1525.—Pescara's
treason.—Vittoria's sentiments on the occasion.—Pescara's
infamy.—Patriotism unknown in Italy in the Sixteenth Century.—No
such sentiment to be found in the writings of Vittoria.—Evil
influence of her husband's character on her mind.—Death of Pescara.
Meanwhile, Vittoria continued her peaceful and quiet life in Ischia,
lonely indeed, as far as the dearest affections of her heart were
concerned, but cheered and improved by the society of that select
knot of poets and men of learning, whom Costanza di Francavilla, not
unassisted by the presence of Vittoria, attracted to her little island
court. We find Musefilo, Filocalo, Giovio, Minturno, Cariteo, Rota,
Sanazzaro, and Bernardo Tasso, among those who helped to make this
remote rock celebrated throughout Europe at that day, as one of the
best loved haunts of Apollo and the Muses,—to speak in the phraseology
of the time.
Many among them have left passages recording the happy days spent on
that fortunate island. The social circle was doubtless a charming and
brilliant one, and the more so, as contrasted with the general tone and
habits of the society of the period. But the style of the following
sonnet by Bernardo Tasso, selected by Visconti as a specimen of the
various effusions by members of the select circle upon the subject,
while it accurately illustrates the prevailing modes of thought and
diction of that period, will hardly fail to suggest the idea of a
comparison—mutatis mutandis—between this company of sixteenth century
choice spirits, and that which assembled, and provoked so severe a
lashing in the memorable Hôtel de Rambouillet, more than an hundred
years afterwards. But an Italian Molière is as wholly impossible in the
nature of things, as a French Dante. And the sixteenth century swarm of
Petrarchists and Classicists have, unlike true prophets, found honour
in their own country.
[Sidenote: BERNARDO TASSO.]
Gentle Bernardo celebrates in this wise these famed Ischia meetings:—
"Superbo scoglio, altero e bel ricetto
Di tanti chiari eroi, d'imperadori,
Onde raggi di gloria escono fuori,
Ch'ogni altro lume fan scuro e negletto;
Se per vera virtute al ben perfetto
Salir si puote ed agli eterni onori,
Queste più d'altre degne alme e migliori
V'andran, che chiudi nel petroso petto.
Il lume e in te dell'armi; in te s'asconde
Casta beltà, valore e cortesia,
Quanta mai vide il tempo, o diede il cielo.
Ti sian secondi i fati, e il vento e l'onde
Rendanti onore, e l'aria tua natia
Abbia sempre temprato il caldo e il gelo!"
Which may be thus "done into English," for the sake of giving those
unacquainted with the language of the original, some tolerably accurate
idea of Messer Bernardo's euphuisms.
"Proud rock! the loved retreat of such a band
Of earth's best, noblest, greatest, that their light
Pales other glories to the dazzled sight,
And like a beacon shines throughout the land,
If truest worth can reach the perfect state,
And man may hope to merit heavenly rest,
Those whom thou harbourest in thy rocky breast,
First in the race will reach the heavenly gate.
Glory of martial deeds is thine. In thee,
Brightest the world e'er saw, or heaven gave,
Dwell chastest beauty, worth, and courtesy!
Well be it with thee! May both wind and sea
Respect thee: and thy native air and wave
Be temper'd ever by a genial sky!"
Such is the poetry of one of the brightest stars of the Ischian galaxy;
and the incredulous reader is assured that it would be easy to find
much worse sonnets by the ream, among the extant productions of the
crowd, who were afflicted with the prevalent Petrarch mania of that
epoch. The statistical returns of the ravages of this malady, given
by the poetical registrar-general Crescimbeni, would astonish even
Paternoster Row at the present day. But Vittoria Colonna, though a
great number of her sonnets do not rise above the level of Bernardo
Tasso in the foregoing specimen, could occasionally, especially in her
later years, reach a much higher tone, as will, it is hoped, be shown
in a future chapter.
It has been suggested, that the religious feelings which inspired her
latter poetry, were, though not more genuine, yet more absorbing than
the conjugal love, which is almost exclusively the theme of her earlier
efforts. And it is at all events certain, that the former so engrossed
her whole mind, as to sever her in a great measure from the world.
This the so fervently sung pangs of separation from her husband do not
appear to have effected.
[Sidenote: A MARRIAGE IN 1517.]
Besides the constant society of the select few, of whom mention has
been made, there were occasionally gayer doings in Ischia; as when in
February, 1517, a brilliant festival was held there on occasion of the
marriage[174] of Don Alfonso Piccolomini with Costanza d'Avalos, the
sister of Vittoria's pupil, the Marchese del Vasto. And occasionally
the gentle poetess, necessitated probably by the exigences of her
social position, would leave her beloved Ischia for brilliant and noisy
Naples. And when these necessities did occur, it is recorded, that the
magnificence and pomp, with which the beautiful young wife made her
appearance among her fellow nobles, was such, as few of them could
equal, and none surpass.
One of these occasions is worth specially noting, for the sake of the
detailed account, which has been preserved of it by that humble and
observant chronicler, our friend the weaver. For it contains traits
and indications, curiously and amusingly illustrative of the life and
manners of that time in Naples.
It was December 6, 1517, and high festival was to be held for the
marriage of the King of Poland with Donna Bona Sforza. The guests
comprised the whole nobility of Naples; and worthy Passeri begins his
account with an accurate Morning-Post-like statement of the costume of
each in the order of their arrival at the church. Doubtless the eager
weaver, a shrewd judge of such matters, had pushed himself into a good
place in the front row of the crowd, who lined the roadway of the noble
guests, and might have been seen with tablets in hand, taking notes
with busy excitement to be transferred to his journal at night. One
after another the high-sounding titles, very many of them Spanish, are
set forth, as they swept by, brilliant with gold and every brightest
tint of costly fabric, and are swallowed up by the dark nave of the
huge church.
It is not necessary to attempt a translation of all the changes Master
Passeri rings on velvet, satin, gold, brocade, and costly furs. Merely
noting that the bride's dress is estimated to be worth seven thousand
ducats, we let them all pass on till "The illustrious lady the Signora
Vittoria, Marchioness of Pescara," arrives. She is mounted on a black
and white jennet, with housings of crimson velvet, fringed with gold.
She is accompanied by six ladies in waiting, uniformly clad in azure
damask, and attended by six grooms on foot, with cloaks and jerkins
of blue and yellow satin. The lady herself wears a robe of brocaded
crimson velvet, with large branches of beaten gold on it. She has a
crimson satin cap, with a head-dress of wrought gold above it; and
around her waist is a girdle of beaten gold.
Some of the assembled company, one might think, would require their
girdles to be of some more yielding material. For, on quitting the
church, they sat down to table at six in the evening, "and began
to eat," says Passeri, "and left off at five in the morning!" The
order and materials of this more than Homeric feast, are handed down
to posterity with scrupulous accuracy by our chronicler. But the
stupendous menu, in its entirety, would be almost as intolerable to the
reader, as having to sit out the eleven hours orgy in person. A few
particulars culled here and there, partly because they are curious, and
partly because the meaning of the words is more intelligible than is
the case in many instances, even to a Neapolitan of the present day,
will amply suffice.
[Sidenote: A FESTIVAL.]
There were twenty-seven courses. Then the quantity of sugar used,
was made, as we have noticed on a former occasion at Rome, a special
subject of glorification. There was "putaggio Ungarese," Hungary soup,
stuffed peacocks, quince pies, and thrushes served with bergamottes,
which were not pears, as an English reader might perhaps suppose, but
small highly scented citrons, of the kind, from which the perfume of
that name is, or is supposed, to be made. With the "bianco mangiare,"
our familiarity with "blanc-mange," seems at first sight to make us
more at home. But we are thrown out by finding, that it was eaten
in 1517, "con mostarda." The dishes of pastry seem according to
our habits, much out of proportion to the rest. Sweet preparations
also, whether of animal or vegetable composition, seem greatly
to preponderate. At the queen's own table, a fountain gave forth
odoriferous waters. But, to all the guests, perfumed water for the
hands was served at the removal of the first tables.
"And thus having passed this first day with infinite delight," the
whole party passed a second, and a third, in the same manner!
That eleven hours should have been spent in eating and drinking is of
course simply impossible. Large interludes must be supposed to have
been occupied by music, and very likely by recitations of poetry. On
the first day a considerable time must have been taken up by a part
of the ceremonial, which was doubtless far more interesting to the
fairer half of the assembly than the endless gormandising. This was
a display, article by article, of the bride's trousseau, which took
place while the guests were still sitting at table. Passeri minutely
catalogues the whole exhibition. The list begins with twenty pairs of
sheets, all embroidered with different coloured silks; and seven pairs
of sheets, "d'olanda," of Dutch linen, fringed with gold. Then come
an hundred and five shirts of Dutch linen, all embroidered with silk
of divers colours; and seventeen shirts of cambric, "cambraia," with
a selvage of gold, as a present for the royal bridegroom. There were
twelve head-dresses, and six ditto, ornamented with gold and coloured
silk, for his majesty; an hundred and twenty handkerchiefs, embroidered
with gold cord; ninety-six caps, ornamented with gold and silk, of
which thirty-six were for the king. There were eighteen counterpanes
of silk, one of which was wrought "alla moresca;" forty-eight sets
of stamped leather hangings, thirty-six others "of the ostrich egg
pattern," sixteen "of the artichoke pattern," and thirty-six of silk
tapestry. Beside all these hundred sets, there were eight large pieces
of Flanders arras, "con seta assai." They represented the seven works
of mercy, and were valued at a thousand golden ducats. There was a
litter, carved and gilt, with its four mattrasses of blue embroidered
satin. Passing on to the plate department, we have a silver waiter, two
large pitchers wrought in relief, three basins, an ewer, and six large
cups, twelve large plates, twelve ditto of second size, and twenty-four
soup-plates made "alla franzese," a massive salt-cellar, a box of
napkins, spoons, and jugs, four large candlesticks, two large flasks, a
silver pail, and a cup of gold worth two hundred ducats for the king's
use. Then for the chapel, a furniture for the altar, with the history
of the three kings embroidered in gold on black velvet; a missal on
parchment, with illuminated miniatures, bound in velvet ornamented
with silver clasps and bosses; and a complete set of requisites for
the service in silver. Then, returning to the personal department,
came twenty-one gowns, each minutely described, and one of blue satin
spangled with bees in solid gold, particularly specified as being worth
four thousand ducats.
[Sidenote: SEES PESCARA FOR THE LAST TIME.]
When all this and much more had been duly admired, there were brought
forward an empty casket and fifteen trays, in which were an hundred
thousand ducats of gold, which were put into the casket "before all the
Signori." But our chronicler is compelled by his love of truth to add
reluctantly that there were several false ducats among them.[175]
It is evident from the nature of many of the articles in the above
list, that this "trousseau" was not merely a bride's fitting out
purchased for the occasion, but was a collection of all the Lady Bona's
chattel property, and represented, as was then usually the case with
all wealthy persons, a very large, if not the principal part, of her
worldly goods.
It may well be imagined, that Vittoria was not sorry to return to
the quiet and intellectual society of Ischia after these tremendous
three days at Naples. There she was cheered from time to time by
three or four short visits from her husband; and by continual tidings
of his increasing reputation and advancement in dignity and wealth;
a prosperity which she considered dearly purchased by his almost
continual absence. The death of her father Fabrizio in March, 1520,
and that of her mother in 1522, made her feel more poignantly this
loneliness of heart.
In October of 1522, Pescara made a flying visit to his wife and home.
He was with her three days only, and then hastened back to the army.
It was the last time she ever saw him. His career with the army
meantime was very glorious. In May, 1522, he took and sacked Genoa;
"con la maggior crodelitate de lo mundo," writes admiring Passeri. The
plundering lasted a day and a half; and "da che lo mundo fo mundo,"
never was seen a sacking of so great riches, "for there was not a
single soldier who did not at the least get a thousand ducats." Then,
with the year 1525 came, on the 24th of February, the memorable day of
Pavia, which was so glorious that, as Passeri writes, the desolation
inflicted by it on the country around was such, that neither house,
tree, nor vine was to be seen for miles. All was burned. Few living
creatures were to be met with, and those subsisting miserably on roots.
The result of that "field of honour" is sufficiently well known.
Pescara, who received three wounds, though none of them serious, in
the battle, considered that he was ill-used, when the royal captive
Francis was taken out of his hands to Spain, and made complaints on the
subject to his master Charles V., who had succeeded Ferdinand on the
thrones of Spain and Naples in 1516. He was now, however, at the age of
thirty-five, general-in-chief for that monarch in Lombardy, and enjoyed
his perfect confidence, when circumstances arose calculated to try his
fidelity severely. Whether that, almost the only virtue recognised,
honoured, and professed by his own class at that day, remained
altogether intact and unblemished is doubtful. But it is certain, that
in any view of the case, his conduct was such as would consign him to
utter infamy in any somewhat more morally enlightened age than his
own, and such as any noble-hearted man, however untaught, would have
instinctively shrunk from even then.
[Sidenote: PESCARA'S TREACHERY.]
The circumstances briefly were as follows:—
Clement VII., who had succeeded to the Popedom in 1523, had, after much
trimming and vacillation between Francis I. and Charles V., become,
like the rest of Italy, exceedingly alarmed at the preponderating
power of Charles, after the discomfiture of the French at Pavia. Now
the discontent of Pescara, mentioned above, being notorious, the Pope
and his counsellors, especially Giberti, Bishop of Verona, and Morone,
Chancellor and Prime Minister of the Duke of Milan, thought that it
might not be impossible to induce him to turn traitor to Charles, and
make use of the army under his command to crush once and for ever the
Spanish power in Italy. The prime mover and agent in this conspiracy
was Morone, who had the reputation of being one of the profoundest and
most far-sighted statesmen of his day. Guicciardini[176] has recorded,
that he (the historian) had often heard Morone declare, that there did
not exist a worse or more faithless man in all Italy than Pescara.
The conspiring Chancellor, therefore, being empowered by the Pope to
promise the malcontent general the throne of Naples as the price of his
treason, thought that he might well venture to make the proposal.
Pescara received his overtures favourably, saying, that _if he could be
satisfied that what was proposed to him could be done without injury
to his honour_, he would willingly undertake it, and accept the reward
offered to him.[177] Upon this reply being communicated to the Pope,
a couple of cardinals forthwith wrote to the Marchese, assuring him
that the treason required of him was, "according to the dispositions
and ordinances of the laws, civil as well as canon,"[178] perfectly
consistent with the nicest honour. Meanwhile, however, it chanced, that
one Messer Gismondo Santi, who had been sent by the conspirators with
letters on the subject into France or Switzerland, was murdered for
the purpose of robbery by an innkeeper with whom he lodged at Bergamo,
and was buried under the staircase, as was discovered some years
afterwards. And as no tidings were heard of this messenger, all engaged
in the plot, and Pescara among them, suspected that he had been waylaid
for the sake of his dispatches, and that thus all was probably made
known to Charles. Thereupon Pescara immediately wrote to the Emperor,
revealing the whole conspiracy, and declaring that he had given ear to
their proposals only for the purpose of obtaining full information of
the conspirators' designs.
Such is the version of the story given by Varchi, probably the most
trustworthy of all the numerous contemporary historians. He adds,
"it is not unknown to me, that many say, and perhaps think, that the
Marchese, acting loyally from the beginning, had all along given the
emperor true information of everything; all which I, for my part,
knowing nothing further than what I have said, will not undertake to
deny. It would, indeed, be agreeable to me to believe that it was so,
rather than that the character of so great a soldier should be stained
with so foul a blot. Though, indeed, I know not what sort of loyalty or
sincerity that may be, which consists in having deceived and betrayed
by vile trickery and fraud a Pope, who, if nothing else, was at least
very friendly to him, a republic such as that of Venice, and many
other personages, for the sake of acquiring favour with his master.
This I know well, that the lady Vittoria Colonna, his wife, a woman of
the highest character, and abounding in all the virtues which can adorn
her sex, had no sooner heard of the intrigue on foot, than, wholly
untempted by the brilliant hope hung out to her, she with infinite
sorrow and anxiety wrote most warmly to her husband, urging him to
bethink him of his hitherto unstained character, and to weigh well what
he was about, assuring him that as far as she was concerned, she had no
wish to be the wife of a king, but only of a loyal and upright man."
[Sidenote: HER LETTER TO HER HUSBAND.]
This letter from Vittoria, urging her husband not to be seduced to
swerve from the path of honour and duty, is recorded by most of the
writers; and Visconti asserts, that it was the means of inducing
Pescara to abandon the idea of betraying his sovereign. At all events,
the existence of such a letter is very strong evidence that Pescara
had _not_ from the first informed Charles of the plot, but _had_ at
least hesitated whether he should not join in it, inasmuch as his
communications to her upon the subject had given her reason to fear
lest he should do so.
On the other hand, it is fair to observe, that several of those
concerned in the intrigue saw reason to suspect the possibility of
Pescara's having from the first listened to their overtures only to
betray them; as is proved by extant letters from one to another of
them.[179]
Perhaps this, too, was consistent with the nicest honour, as defined
"by the ordinances of canon and civil law." But whether he were a
traitor to his king or not, he was determined to shrink from no depth
of treachery towards his dupes, that could serve to ingratiate him
with his master. While still feigning to accede to their proposals, he
sent to Morone to come to him at Novara, that all might be arranged
between them. Morone, against the advice of many of his friends, and,
as Guicciardini thought,[180] with a degree of imprudence astonishing
in so practised and experienced a man, went to the meeting. He was
received in the most cordial manner by Pescara, who, as soon as they
were alone together, led him to speak of all the details of the
proposed plan. The trap was complete; for behind the hangings of the
room in which they were sitting, he had hidden Antonio da Leyva, one of
the generals of the Spanish army, who arrested him as he was quitting
the house, and took him to the prison of Novara, where Pescara the next
day had the brazen audacity to examine as a judge the man whom a few
hours previously he had talked with as an accomplice.[181]
Surely, whichever version of the story may be believed, as to Pescara's
original intentions, there is enough here in evidence to go far towards
justifying Chancellor Morone's opinion, that he was one of the worst
and most faithless men in Italy. Some modern Italian writers, with
little moral, and less historical knowledge, have rested the gravamen
of the charge against him on his want of patriotic Italian feeling on
the occasion. In the first place, no such motive, however laudable
in itself, could have justified him in being guilty of the treason
proposed to him. In the second place, the class of ideas in question
can hardly be found to have had any existence at that period, although
distinct traces of such may be met with in Italian history 200 years
earlier. Certainly the Venetian Senate were not actuated by any such;
and still more absurd would it be to attribute them to Pope Clement. It
is possible that Morone, and perhaps still more, Giberti, may not have
been untinctured by them.
[Sidenote: PESCARA'S SPANISH TENDENCIES.]
But Pescara was one of the last men, even had he been as high-minded
as we find him to have been the reverse, in whom to look for Italian
"_fuori i barbari_" enthusiasm. Of noble Spanish blood, his family had
always been the counsellors, friends, and close adherents of a Spanish
dynasty at Naples, and the man himself was especially Spanish in all
his sympathies and ideas. "He adopted,"[182] says Giovio, "in all his
costume the Spanish fashion, and always preferred to speak in that
language to such a degree, that with Italians, and even with Vittoria
his wife, he talked Spanish." And elsewhere he is said to have been in
the habit of expressing his regret that he was not born a Spaniard.
Such habits and sentiments would have been painful enough to a wife,
a Roman and a Colonna, if Vittoria had been sufficiently in advance
of her age to have conceived patriotic ideas of Italian nationality.
But though her pursuits and studies were infinitely more likely to
have led her mind to such thoughts, than were those of the actors
in the political drama of the time to generate any such notions in
them, yet no trace of any sentiment of the kind is to be found in her
writings. Considering the extent of the field over which her mind had
travelled, her acquaintance with classical literature, and with the
history of her own country, it may seem surprising that a nature,
certainly capable of high and noble aspirations, should have remained
untouched by one of the noblest. That it was so is a striking proof of
the utter insensibility of the age to any feelings of the sort. It is
possible too, that the tendencies and modes of thought of her husband
on the subject of Italy may have exercised a repressing influence in
this respect on Vittoria's mind; for who does not know how powerfully
a woman's intelligence and heart may be elevated or degraded by the
nature of the object of her affections; and, doubtless, to Vittoria
as to so many another of every age do the admirable lines of the poet
address themselves:—
"Thou shalt lower to his level day by day,
What is fine within thee growing coarse to sympathise with clay.
As the husband is, the wife is; thou art mated with a clown,
And the grossness of his nature will have weight to drag thee down."
When we come to examine the tone of sentiment prevailing in Vittoria's
poetry, other indications of this deteriorating influence will be
perceptible, and if much of nobleness, purity, high aspiration be
nevertheless still found in her, this partial immunity from the evil
influence must be attributed to the trifling duration of that portion
of her life passed in her husband's company.
Pescara was not unrewarded for the infamy with which he covered himself
in the service of his master. He obtained the rank of Generalissimo
of the imperial forces in Italy. But he enjoyed the gratification for
a very little while. In the latter end of that year, he fell into a
state of health which seems to have been not well accounted for by the
medical science of that day. The wounds he had received at Pavia in
the previous February are specially described by Passeri as having
been very slight. Some writers have supposed that either shame for the
part he had acted in the Morone affair, or, with greater probability,
misgiving as to the possibility of the emperor's discovering the real
truth of the facts (for the fate of Gismondo Santi and his papers was
not known yet), was the real cause of his illness. It seems clearly
to have been of the nature of a sudden and premature decay of all the
vital forces.
[Sidenote: PESCARA'S DEATH.]
Towards the end of the year he abandoned all hope of recovery, and sent
to his wife to desire her to come to him with all speed. He was then at
Milan. She set out instantly on her painful journey, and had reached
Viterbo on her way northwards, when she was met by the news of his
death.
It took place on the 25th of November, 1525. He was buried on the
30th of that month, says Giovio, at Milan; but the body was shortly
afterwards transported with great pomp and magnificence to Naples.
CHAPTER V.
Vittoria, a Widow, with the Nuns of San Silvestro.—Returns to
Ischia.—Her Poetry divisible into two classes.—Specimens of her
Sonnets.—They rapidly attain celebrity throughout Italy.—Vittoria's
sentiments towards her Husband.—Her unblemished Character.—Platonic
Love.—The Love Poetry of the Sixteenth Century.
Vittoria became thus a widow in the thirty-sixth year of her age. She
was still in the full pride of her beauty, as contemporary writers
assert, and as two extant medals, struck at Milan shortly before her
husband's death, attest. One of them presents the bust of Pescara on
the obverse, and that of Vittoria on the reverse; the other has the
same portrait of her on the obverse, and a military trophy on the
reverse. The face represented is a very beautiful one, and seen thus
in profile is perhaps more pleasing than the portrait, which has been
spoken of in a previous chapter. She was moreover even now probably the
most celebrated woman in Italy, although she had done little as yet to
achieve that immense reputation which awaited her a few years later.
Very few probably of her sonnets were written before the death of her
husband.
But the exalted rank and prominent position of her own family, the high
military grade and reputation of her husband, the wide-spread hopes and
fears of which he had recently been the centre in the affair of the
conspiracy, joined to the fame of her talents, learning, and virtues,
which had been made the subject of enthusiastic praise by nearly all
the Ischia knot of poets and wits, rendered her a very conspicuous
person in the eyes of all Italy. Her husband's premature and unexpected
death added a source of interest of yet another kind to her person. A
young, beautiful, and very wealthy widow, gave rise to quite as many
hopes, speculations, and designs in the sixteenth century as in any
other.
[Sidenote: SADOLETO'S BULL.]