The name of this wondrous lady is carefully kept in the background by Lorenzo, but from other sources she is known to have been Lucrezia Donati, a lady of n.o.ble birth, celebrated for her goodness and beauty, and a member of that same Donati family to which Dante's wife belonged.

At the time of this love affair, Lorenzo was about twenty, and the lady was somewhat older, but that made no difference to the young poet, who immediately began to exhibit all those symptoms which have become traditional in such maladies of the heart. He lost his appet.i.te, grew pale, shunned the society of even his dearest friends, took long, solitary walks, and wrote many an ode and sonnet in honor of the fair Donati. But she was indeed a divinity rather than a friend, and his oft-expressed delight in her many charms was rather intellectual than emotional and pa.s.sionate. She becomes for him, in truth, a very sun of blazing beauty, which he looks upon to admire, but the fire of the lover is entirely wanting. While it was no such mystic attachment as that professed by Dante for Beatrice, it no doubt resembles it from certain points of view, as, in each case, the lover has little actual acquaintance with the object of his affections. But there this comparison must end, for it has been explained how Dante derived a certain moral and spiritual benefit from his early brooding love, and in the more modern instance nothing of the kind is apparent. On the contrary, everything seems to show that Lorenzo was at an age when his "fancy lightly turned to thoughts of love," and, being of a poetic temperament, he amused himself by writing amorous poetry which came from the head and not the heart. The characteristic traits of this poetry, then, are grace and elegance, sonority and rhythm; it lacks sincerity and that impetuous flow of sentiment which is generally indicative of intense feeling. It cannot be denied, however, that he often reached a high plane; perhaps the following lines show him at his best:

"Quale sopra i nevosi ed alti monti Apollo spande il s...o...b..l lume adorno, Tal' i crin suoi sopra la bianca gonna!

Il tempo e'l luogo non ch'io conti, Che dov'e si bel sole e sempre giorno; E Paradiso, ov'e si bella Donna!"

[As Apollo sheds his golden beams over the snowy summits of the lofty mountains, so flowed her golden tresses over her gown of white. But I need not note the time and place, for where shines so fair a sun it can be naught but day, and where dwells my lady fair can be but Paradise!]

While still preoccupied with what Mrs. Jameson terms his visions of love and poetry, he was called upon by his father, at the age of twenty-one, to marry, for political reasons, a woman whom he had never seen--Clarice Orsini. That the marriage was unexpected is attested by a note in his diary to this effect: "I, Lorenzo, took to wife, Donna Clarice Orsini, or rather she was given to me," on such and such a day. The ceremony was performed in Naples, it appears, but the wedding festivities were celebrated in Florence, and never was there a more brilliant scene in all the city's history. The fete began on a Sunday morning and lasted until midday of the Tuesday following, and for that s.p.a.ce of time almost the entire population was entertained and fed by the Medici. On this occasion the wedding presents took a practical turn, in part, for, from friends and from some of the neighboring villages subject to the rule of Florence, supplies were sent in great quant.i.ties; among the number, record is made of eight hundred calves and two thousand pairs of chickens! There were music and dancing by day and by night; musicians were stationed in various parts of the city, and about them the dancers filled the streets. An adequate conception of this scene will perhaps be a matter of some difficulty, but those who know something of the way in which the people in modern Paris dance upon the smooth pavements on the night of the national holiday, the Quatorze Juillet, will possess at least a faint idea of what it must have been. That all cla.s.ses of the population were cared for at this great festival is proved by the fact that one hundred kegs of wine were consumed daily, and that five thousand pounds of sweetmeats and candies were distributed among the people.

The marriage of the poet Ariosto with the beautiful Alessandra Strozzi, widow of t.i.to Strozzi, a n.o.ble Florentine who was famed in his day for his Latin poetry, was not concluded with any such display and magnificence, the author of the _Orlando Furioso_ being in no position which made it necessary for him to entertain the whole population, and having ideas all his own regarding the advantage of publicity in such matters. Long before Ariosto's marriage, however, in the days of his youth and before he had ever set eyes upon the t.i.tian-haired Alessandra, he fell captive to the charms of Ginevra Lapi, a young girl of Florentine family, who lived at or near Mantua. He met her first at a _festa di ballo_, we are told, and there he was much impressed with her grace and beauty, for she seemed like a young G.o.ddess among her less favored companions. Then began that attachment which lasted for long years and which seems to have inspired much of his earlier lyric poetry.

Four years after their first meeting he writes that she was "dearer to him than his own soul and fairer than ever in his eyes," and she seems to have made a very strong impression upon his mind, as he mentions her long afterward with most genuine tenderness. What more than this may be said of Ginevra Lapi has not yet come to light, and it is due to the poet alone that her name has been handed down to posterity. If Ariosto had been an expansive and communicative man, we might know far more than we do of Ginevra and of the other friends of his youth, for he was a person of most impressionable nature, who was very susceptible to the allurements of beautiful women, and there is no doubt of the fact that he had a certain compelling charm which made him almost irresistible with the ladies of his _entourage_. However, the history of his affairs of the heart has baffled all investigators as yet, because the poet, from the very earliest days of his youth, made it a rule never to boast of his conquests or to speak of his friends in any public way. As a symbol of this gallant rule of conduct, there is still preserved at Ferrara one of Ariosto's inkstands, which is ornamented with a little bronze Cupid, finger upon lip in token of silence.

Early biographers and literary historians were inclined to give to Ginevra Lapi all credit for the more serious inspiration which prompted him to write the major part of his amatory verse, and so careful had he been to conceal the facts that it was not until many years after his death that his marriage to Alessandra Strozzi was generally known.

Ariosto had been on a visit to Rome in the year 1515, and, on his return, he chanced to stop at Florence, where he intended to spend three or four days during the grand festival which was being held in honor of Saint John the Baptist. Arriving just in time to be present at some social function of importance, the poet there saw for the first time this lady who was to mean so much to him for all the rest of his life.

It will be remembered that when Lorenzo de' Medici first met Lucrezia Donati he had been taken to some evening company, much against his will. In the present instance, it was the lady who showed disinclination to go into society, and her recent widowhood gave her good reason for her feeling in the matter; but, won over by the entreaties of her friends, _da preghi vinta_, she finally consented to go. What she wore and how she looked, and how she bore herself, and much more, do we know from Ariosto's glowing lines which were written in commemoration of this event. Her gown was of black, all embroidered with bunches of grapes and grape leaves in purple and gold. Her luxuriant blond hair, the _richissima capellatura bionda_, was gathered in a net behind and, parted in the middle, fell to her shoulders in long curls on either side of her face; and on her forehead, just where the hair was parted, she wore a twig of laurel, cunningly wrought in gold and precious stones.

Alessandra's most effective charm was her wonderful hair, of that color which had been made famous by the pictures of t.i.tian and Giorgione, and it really seems that in Ariosto's time this color was so ardently desired that hair dyes were in common use, especially in Venice. It is with a feeling of some regret that we are led to reflect that much of that gorgeous hair which we have admired for so many years in the famous paintings of the Venetian masters may be artificial in its brilliant coloring, but such, alas! is probably the case. The fair Alessandra, nevertheless, had no need to resort to the dye pots of Venice, as Mother Nature had been generous in the extreme, and the poet was inspired by the truth, if the painters of the time were not. How unfortunate, then, that a serious illness was the means of her being shorn of this crowning glory! Her attending physician decided upon one occasion that it would be necessary to cut her hair to save her life, but later events proved that he had been over anxious and that this desperate remedy had been entirely uncalled for. Ariosto, as may well be believed, was indignant at the sacrifice, and wrote three sonnets regarding it before he cooled his anger. In one of these pa.s.sionate protests occur the following lines, which will give some idea of his highly colored style and at the same time show us what an important place Alessandra Strozzi must have held in his affections: "When I think, as I do a thousand times a day, upon those golden tresses, which neither wisdom nor necessity but hasty folly tore, alas! from that fair head, I am enraged, my cheeks burn with anger, even tears gush forth bathing my face and bosom. I would die, could I but be avenged upon the impious stupidity of that rash hand. O Love, if such wrong goes unpunished, thine be the reproach!... Wilt thou suffer the loveliest and dearest of thy possessions to be boldly ravished and yet bear it in silence?"

Though Ariosto had come to Florence to spend but a summer day or two at Saint John's feast, his visit lengthened into weeks, and full six months had rolled around before he could tear himself away after that first eventful evening. As his time was spent with his friend Vespucci, Alessandra's brother-in-law, he had ample opportunity to bask in her smiles without exciting unfavorable comment; and when he finally did depart, he left his heart behind him. From that day until the time of his death it was known that he loved her, but their names were never coupled in any scandalous way, and it was only after the death of the poet that the fact was known that they had been secretly married. No one has been able to give the exact date of this marriage, but there is now little doubt with regard to the fact itself, and certain evidence leads to the conclusion that the wedding must have taken place in the year 1522. Why this matter was kept a secret has given rise to much speculation, for it would appear to the superficial observer that a public acknowledgment of the fact might have been a matter of pride to either the poet or the Signora Strozzi. Family reasons have been alleged by Baruffaldi, one of Ariosto's many biographers, but they seem entirely inadequate and unsatisfactory, and the whole matter still remains shrouded in mystery.

One side of the question which has not perhaps been presented before is this--would there have been any change in the tone of Ariosto's lyric verse if Alessandra had been known to all the world as his wife? With the possible exceptions of the Brownings and one or two others, the case is hardly recorded where a poet has been inspired to his highest efforts by his wedded wife, and it is extremely problematical whether or not in the present instance the fire and fervor of Ariosto's lines could have been kindled at a domestic hearth which all the world might see. The secret marriage was probably insisted upon by the wife, and all honor to Alessandra Strozzi for her pure heart in that corrupt time! But the fact was probably kept hidden to gratify some whim of the poet. The very situation is tinged with the romantic, the old adage about stolen sweets was undoubtedly as true in that time as it is to-day, and the poet had a restless nature which could ill brook the ordinary yoke of Hymen. So long as he could live in the Via Mirasole, and Alessandra in the stately Casa Strozzi, Ferrara had charms for him, and his muse was all aflame.

Would this have been true if one roof had sheltered them?

Whatever the verdict may be in this matter, the fact remains that all of Ariosto's lyric poetry and many of the pa.s.sages in the _Orlando Furioso_ were inspired by his real love for some woman, and it was this living, burning pa.s.sion which gives him his preeminence as a poet. He had mannerisms, it is true, and much that he wrote is apt to appear stilted to the ordinary English reader, but such mannerisms are only the national characteristics of most Italian poetry and must be viewed in that light. On the other hand, Ariosto's evident sincerity is in striking contrast to the cold, intellectual, amatory verse of Lorenzo de' Medici, which was, in truth, but an aesthetic diversion for that brilliant prince. And even this was due to the inspiration he received from the sight of a fair lady, many years his senior, for whom he had a most distant, formal, Platonic affection, while it never dawned upon him that his own wife's beauty might deserve a sonnet now and then.

CHAPTER VIII

THE BORGIAS AND THE BAD WOMEN OF THE SIXTEENTH CENTURY

Things went from bad to worse, as is their habit, and Italian life in the sixteenth century shows an increasing corruption and a laxity in public morals which were but the natural result of the free-thinking Renaissance. The Church had completely lost its influence as the spiritual head of Europe, and had become but a hypocritical princ.i.p.ality, greedy for temporal power, and openly trafficking in ecclesiastical offices which were once supposed to belong by right to men of saintly lives; it is probable that this barefaced profligacy of the papal court was responsible for the widespread moral inertia which was characteristic of the time. The pontiff's chair at the dawn of this century was filled by Roderigo Borgia, known as Alexander VI., and it may well be said that his career of crime and l.u.s.t gave the keynote to the society which was to follow him. By means of most open bribery he had been elected to his office, but, in spite of these well-known facts, his advent was hailed with great joy and his march to the Vatican was a veritable triumph. Contemporary historians unite in praising him at this time in his career, for as a cardinal he had been no worse in his immoralities than many of his colleagues; and he was a man of commanding presence and marked abilities, who seemed to embody the easy grace and indifference of his day. It was said of him as he rode to a.s.sume the mantle of Saint Peter: "He sits upon a snow-white horse, with serene forehead, with commanding dignity. How admirable is the mild composure of his mien! how n.o.ble his countenance! his glance--how free!" And it was said that the heroic beauty of his whole body was given him by Nature in order that he might adorn the seat of the Apostles with his divine form, in the place of G.o.d! What blasphemy this was! but it shows the moral level of the day. His intercourse with Vanozza Catanei was open and notorious, and she was the mother of that Lucrezia Borgia whose ill repute is dying a hard death in the face of modern attempts at rehabilitation. His liaison with Giulia Farnese, known as _la bella Giulia_, the lawful wife of Orsino Orsini, was no less conspicuous, and these two women had a great influence upon him throughout his whole lifetime. It had already been said of him: "He is handsome, of a most glad countenance and joyous aspect, gifted with honeyed and choice eloquence; the beautiful women on whom he casts his eyes are charmed to love him, and he moves them in a wondrous way, more powerfully than the magnet influences iron;" but this seduction in his manner cannot be considered as merely an innocent result of his great personal beauty, because his l.u.s.tful disposition is well proved, and sensuality was always his greatest vice. Symonds makes the statement that within the sacred walls of the Vatican he maintained a harem in truly Oriental fashion; and here were doubtless sent, from all parts of the papal states, those daughters of Venus who were willing to minister to the joys of His Holiness. To cap the climax, imagine the effrontery of a pope who dared, in the face of the ecclesiastical rule enjoining celibacy upon the priesthood, to parade his delinquencies before the eyes of all the world, and seat himself in state, for a solemn pageant at Saint Peter's, with his daughter Lucrezia upon one side of his throne and his daughter-in-law Sancia upon the other! It was once said by a witty and epigrammatic Italian that Church affairs were so corrupt that the interests of morality demanded the marriage rather than the celibacy of the clergy, and it would appear that this remark has a certain pertinency anent the present situation. To ill.u.s.trate in what way such delinquency was made a matter of jest, the following story is related. At the time of the French invasion, during the early days of Alexander's pontificate, Giulia and Girolama Farnese, two members of what we perhaps may call the pope's domestic circle, were captured, together with their duenna, Adriana di Mila, by a certain Monseigneur d'Allegre, who was in the suite of the French king. He came upon them near Capodimonte and carried them off to Montefiascone, where they were placed in confinement; while Alexander was notified of the occurrence and told that he must pay a ransom, the sum being fixed at three thousand ducats. This amount was paid instanter, and the captives were at once released. As they approached Rome, they were met by Alexander, who was attired as a layman, in black and gold brocade, with his dagger at his belt. When Ludovico Sforza heard what had happened, he remarked, with a smile, that the ransom was much too small, and that if the sum of fifty thousand ducats had been demanded it would have been paid with equal readiness, as these ladies were known to be "the very eyes and heart" of the Holy Father.

[Ill.u.s.tration 3: _ALEXANDER VI. ENTERTAINING AN AMBa.s.sADOR After the painting by H. Kaulbach It was part of his policy, in the accomplishment of his purposes, to entertain luxuriously and to adapt his hospitalities to the varied tastes of his guests, and it is said that even within the Vatican a harem was maintained for the amus.e.m.e.nt of his many Oriental visitors._]

It was in the midst of this wanton court that the yellow-haired Lucrezia Borgia grew up to womanhood, subject to all the baleful influences which were in such profusion about her. a.s.sociating, perforce, with the dissolute women of her father's household, it would be too much to expect to find her a woman uncontaminated by the ways of the world.

There are many things to show that she had her father's love, and dark stories have been whispered regarding his overfondness for her; but, be that as it may, it is certain that Alexander never neglected an opportunity to give his daughter worldly advancement. Before his accession to the pontificate, Lucrezia had been formally promised to a couple of Spanish grandees, Don Cherubino Juan de Centelles and Don Gasparo da Procida, who was a son of the Count of Aversa; but once in the Vatican, with the papal power in his hands, Alexander grew more ambitious, and looked for another alliance, which might give him an increased political power. Then come three marriages in which the daughter Lucrezia seems but a puppet in her father's hands. First, she was married to Giovanni Sforza, Lord of Pesaro, but differences of opinion regarding politics and the pope's desire for a still more powerful son-in-law led him to sanction Lucrezia's divorce; she was then promptly married to Alphonso, Prince of Biseglia, a natural son of the King of Naples. When Alphonso's father was deposed, the Borgias grew tired of the prince, and caused him to be stabbed one fine day on the very steps of Saint Peter's. Then, as he showed some disinclination to give up the ghost, he was strangled as he lay in his bed by Mich.e.l.lozzo, the trusted villain of the Borgia household. The year following, Lucrezia found another spouse, and this time it was Alphonso, the Crown Prince of Ferrara. The marriage was celebrated by means of a proxy, in Rome, and then the daughter of the pope, with cardinals and prelates in her train, set out on a triumphal journey across the country. She travelled with much pomp and ceremony, as was befitting one of her position in the world, and on her arrival in Ferrara she was welcomed with most elaborate ceremonies. This marriage had been forced upon the house of Este through political necessity, and the young duke-to-be, Alphonso, had looked forward to it with no pleasure, hence the wedding by proxy; but Lucrezia, by her charm and tact, soon won the affection of her husband and drew about her a most distinguished company of poets and scholars, all of whom were enthusiastic in singing her praise. Ariosto and the two Strozzi were there, likewise the Cardinal Bembo--who became a somewhat too ardent admirer--and Aldo Manuzio, and other men of distinction. Though of commonplace origin, Lucrezia had received the very best education possible, and she conducted herself with such propriety and showed such ready wit that she was the real centre of her literary coterie and gave little, if any, outward evidence of that immoral and dissolute character with which she had been credited in her earlier days. There can be no doubt that the corrupt influences which surrounded her in her girlhood early destroyed her purity of mind and led her to dissolute practices, but the legend which has grown up about her, filled with fearful stories of poison and murder, has been much exaggerated. A sensual woman she was, but she has had to suffer for many crimes which were committed by her father and her brother, Caesar Borgia; and while she was undoubtedly bad in many ways, the time has pa.s.sed when she can justly be considered as a fiend incarnate.

With the high priest of all Christendom a man whose hands were stained with blood and whose private life was marred by every vice, it is not surprising that in all parts of Italy the annals of this time are tainted and polluted in every way. Apparently, all restraint was thrown aside, the n.o.blest families seemed to vie with each other in crime and debauchery, and the pages of history are filled with countless awful iniquities. Among the Medici alone, there is a record of eleven family murders within the short s.p.a.ce of fifty years, and seven of these were caused by illicit love! With that lack of logic which sometimes, under similar circ.u.mstances, characterizes the actions of men to-day, these Italians of the sixteenth century were not willing that their sisters and wives should debase themselves by dishonorable conduct, no matter what they might do themselves, and when the women were found guilty there was no punishment too severe for them. Thus, Eleanora di Toledo was hacked to pieces by her husband Pietro de' Medici, and his sister Isabella was strangled by her husband the Duke di Bracciano, with the consent of her brothers.

Isabella dead, the duke was free to marry Vittoria Accoramboni,--in no way his equal in rank, for he was an Orsini,--who was a woman totally devoid of all moral sense--if she is to be judged by her acts. She had been wedded to Francesco Peretti, but, tiring of him and seeing the opportunity for marriage with the duke, she and her mother plotted the husband's death, and it was her handsome and unscrupulous brother who did the deed. Despite the pope's opposition, the marriage was consummated, but the guilty pair were not allowed to remain unmolested for a long time, as Vittoria was soon arrested and tried for complicity in her first husband's murder. While thus under arrest, she lived in great state and entertained in a most lavish way, and seemed in no way abashed by her position. Though finally acquitted, she was ordered by the court to leave the duke and lead henceforth a life which might be above suspicion. Through the brother Marcello and his constant companion, who is continually alluded to as the "Greek enchantress," the duke and his wife were soon brought together again; they were again married, that the succession might be a.s.sured to Vittoria. Indeed, they were twice married with this purpose in view, but they were so scorned by the members of the duke's own family and so hara.s.sed by the pope's officers, who were ever threatening prosecution, that their life was one of constant care and anxiety. When the duke finally died, Vittoria was left his sole heir, though the will was disputed by Ludovico Orsini, the next in succession. Vittoria was spending her first few months of widowhood in the Orsini palace at Padua, when one night the building was entered by forty men, all masked in black, who came with murderous intent. Marcello, the infamous brother, escaped their clutches; another brother, much younger and innocent of all crime, was shot in the shoulder and driven to his sister's room, where he thought to find shelter; there they saw Vittoria, calmly kneeling at her _prie-dieu_, rosary in hand, saying her evening prayers. As the story goes, she flung herself before a crucifix, but all in vain, for she was stabbed in the heart, one a.s.sa.s.sin turning the knife to make death absolutely certain.

She died saying, it is reported: "Jesus, I forgive you!" The next day, when the deed was noised abroad, and the corpse of Vittoria was exposed to the public gaze, her beauty, even in death, appealed to the Paduans; and they at once rushed to Ludovico's palace, believing him guilty of the crime or responsible for it in some way. The place was besieged, an intercepted letter revealed the fact that Ludovico had killed Vittoria with his own hand, and when the place was finally reduced and surrender inevitable, the n.o.ble a.s.sa.s.sin coolly gave up his arms, and then began to trim his finger-nails with a small pair of scissors, which he took from his pocket, as if nothing had happened. It is evident that, having accomplished his revenge upon this woman who had sullied the name of his family, he was now content to take whatever fate might come; and when he was strangled in prison, by order of the republic of Venice, he went to his fathers like a brave man, without a sigh or tremor.

The story of Violante di Cordona exhibits the same disregard for moral law and the same calm acceptance of death. As the d.u.c.h.ess of Palliano and wife of Don Giovanni Caraffa, this beautiful woman was much courted at her palace in Naples, where she lived in a most sumptuous way with crowds of courtiers and admirers about her. Through the jealousy of Diana Brancaccio, one of her ladies in waiting, who is described as "hot-tempered and tawny-haired," the fair d.u.c.h.ess was doomed to a sad fate, and all on account of the handsome Marcello Capecce, who had been her most ardent suitor. In Mrs. Linton's words, "his love for Violante was that half religious, half sensual pa.s.sion which now writes sonnets to my lady as a saint, and now makes love to her as a courtesan." But, whatever his mode of procedure, Diana loved him, while he loved only Violante, and he proved to be a masterful man. The duke was away in exile on account of a disgraceful carouse which had ended in a street fight, and Violante was spending the time, practically alone, in the quiet little town of Gallese, which is halfway between Orvieto and Rome.

In this solitude, Violante and Marcello were finally surprised under circ.u.mstances which made their guilt certain, and final confession was obtained from Marcello after he had been arrested and subjected to torture. Thereupon the duke sought him out in his prison, and stabbed him and threw his body into the prison sewer. The pope, Paul IV., was the duke's uncle; and upon being told what his nephew had done, he showed no surprise, but asked significantly: "And what have they done with the d.u.c.h.ess?" Murder, under such circ.u.mstances, was considered justifiable throughout all Italy--and it must be confessed that the modern world knows something of this sentiment. On one occasion, a Florentine court made this reply to a complaint which had been lodged against a faithless wife: _Essendo vero quanto scriveva facesse quello che conveniva a cavaliere di honore!_ [Things being true as he has written them, he is allowed to do that which is befitting a gentleman of honor!] It was not the pope alone who proposed punishment for Violante, for the duke had a brother, Cardinal Alfonso Caraffa, who spoke of it continually, and finally, in the month of August, in the year 1559, Palliano sent fifty men, with Violante's brother, the Count Aliffe, at their head, to go to her at Gallese and put her to death. A couple of Franciscan monks gave her what little comfort there was to be extracted from the situation, and she received the last sacrament, though stoutly protesting her innocence the while. Then the bandage was put over her eyes, and her brother prepared to place about her neck the cord with which she was to be strangled; finding it too short for the purpose, he went into another room to get one of more suitable length. Before he had disappeared through the doorway, Violante had pulled the bandage from her eyes, and was asking, in the most matter-of-fact way, what the trouble was and why he did not complete his task. With great courtesy, he informed his sister what he was about, and a moment later returned, tranquilly readjusted bandage and cord, and then, fitting his dagger hilt into a loop at the back, he slowly twisted it about until the soul of the d.u.c.h.ess had fled. Not a harsh or hasty word was spoken, there was no hurry and no confusion, all was done quietly and in order. The marvel is that these highly emotional people, who are usually so sensitive to pain, could have shown such stoical indifference to their fate.

The case of Beatrice Cenci is one of the best known in all this category of crime, and here again is shown that sublime fort.i.tude which cannot fail to excite our sympathy, to some degree at least. Francesco Cenci was a wealthy n.o.bleman of such profligate habits and such evil ways that he had twice been threatened with imprisonment for his crimes.

Seven children he had by his first marriage, and at his wife's death he married Lucrezia Petroni, by whom he had no children. Francesco had no love for his sons and daughters, and treated them with such uniform cruelty that he soon drove from their hearts any filial affection they may have felt for him. His conduct grew so outrageous that finally, in desperation, his family appealed to the pope for relief, begging that Cenci be put to death, so that they might live in peace; but the pontiff, who had already profited by Cenci's wealth and saw further need for his gold, refused to comply with so unusual a request, and made matters so much the worse by allowing the father to find out what a desperate course the children had adopted. One of the two daughters was finally married, and Cenci was compelled by the pope to give her a suitable _dot_; but Beatrice still remained at home, and the father kept her in virtual imprisonment that she might not escape him and cause him expense as the other girl had done. The indignities heaped upon her and upon the wife and sons were such that they all revolted at last and plotted to take his life. Cardinal Guerra, a young prelate, who, it seems, was in the habit of visiting the house in Cenci's absence, and who may have been in love with Beatrice, was taken into the secret and all the details were arranged. Two old servants, who had no love for their harsh master, were prevailed upon to do the deed, and were secretly admitted by Beatrice to the castle known as the Rock of Petrella, where Cenci had taken his family for the summer months--all this was in the year 1598. The father's wine had been drugged so that he fell into a deep sleep, and again it was Beatrice who took the a.s.sa.s.sins into the room where he lay. At first they held back, saying that they could not kill a man in his slumber; but Beatrice would not allow them to abandon the task, so great was her power over them.

[Ill.u.s.tration 4: _BEATRICE CENCI After the painting by L. Valles The larger share of responsibility was put upon Beatrice; but she, it appeared, had been the one most sinned against, and certain unmentionable villainies in her father's conduct, which were darkly hinted at, aroused the pity of the Holy Father to such an extent that he gave them all comparative liberty, with the hope of ultimate acquittal.

At this juncture of affairs, a certain n.o.bleman, Paolo Santa Croce, killed his mother as the result of a family quarrel; and the pope, newly angered against the Cenci family because he considered it to have set the example for this parricidal mania, ordered them all to be executed according to the terms of the original judgment, with the exception of the youngest son, Bernardo, who was given a free pardon. The sentence was executed on the following day, Sat.u.r.day, May 11, 1599, on the bridge of Saint Angela._]

Beatrice has shown all along a surprising firmness of character, and a more detailed description of her appearance cannot fail to be of interest. Leigh Hunt gives the following pen portrait, which he ascribes to some Roman ma.n.u.script: "Beatrice was of a make rather large than small. Her complexion was fair. She had two dimples in her cheeks, which added to the beauty of her countenance, especially when she smiled, and gave it a grace that enchanted all who saw her. Her hair was like threads of gold; and because it was very long, she used to fasten it up; but when she let it flow freely, the wavy splendor of it was astonishing. She had pleasing blue eyes, of a sprightliness mixed with dignity, and, in addition to all these graces, her conversation had a spirit in it and a sparkling polish which made every one in love with her."

Such was the girl who overcame the compa.s.sion of these hirelings by recounting to them again the story of their own wrongs and those of the family; and when they still refused, she said: "If you are afraid to put to death a man in his sleep, I myself will kill my father; but your own lives shall not have long to run." So, in they went, and the deed was done in a terrible manner: a long, pointed nail was thrust through one of the eyes and into the brain and then withdrawn, and the body was tossed from an upper balcony into the branches of an elder tree below, that it might seem that he had fallen while walking about in the night.

The murderers were given the reward agreed upon, and, in addition, Beatrice bestowed upon the one who had been least reluctant a mantle laced with gold, which had formerly belonged to her father. The next day, when Francesco Cenci's body was discovered, there was pretence of great grief in the household, and the dead man was given most elaborate burial. After a short time, the family went back to Rome and lived there in tranquillity, until they were startled one day by accusations which charged them with the death of the father. Indignant denials were made by all, and especially by Beatrice, but in vain; they were submitted to torture, and the shameful truth was finally confessed. The pope at first ordered them to be beheaded; but so great was the interest taken in the case by cardinals and members of the n.o.bility, that a respite of twenty-five days was granted in which to prepare a defence. The ablest advocates in Rome interested themselves in the matter, and, when the case was called, the pope listened to the arguments for four hours. The plan of defence was to compare the wrongs of the father with those of the children, and to see which had suffered the more. The larger share of responsibility was put upon Beatrice; but she, it appeared, had been the one most sinned against, and certain unmentionable villainies in her father's conduct, which were darkly hinted at, aroused the pity of the Holy Father to such an extent that he gave them all comparative liberty, with the hope of ultimate acquittal. At this juncture of affairs, a certain n.o.bleman, Paolo Santa Croce, killed his mother as the result of a family quarrel; and the pope, newly angered against the Cenci family because he considered it to have set the example for this parricidal mania, ordered them all to be executed according to the terms of the original judgment, with the exception of the youngest son, Bernardo, who was given a free pardon. The sentence was executed on the following day, Sat.u.r.day, May 11, 1599, on the bridge of Saint Angelo, the three victims being Lucrezia the wife, Beatrice, and the older brother, Giacomo, all the other sons excepting Bernardo being dead at this time. Part of the Cenci estates were conveyed to one of the pope's nephews, and became the Villa Borghese, wherein may still be seen portraits of Lucrezia Petroni and Beatrice Cenci, the latter by the well-known Guido Reni. It is generally believed that this portrait was painted while Beatrice was in prison, and Sh.e.l.ley has given the following appreciative description of it in the preface to his tragedy, _The Cenci_, which is based upon this story, and which he wrote in Rome in 1819:

"There is a fixed and pale composure upon the features, she seems sad and stricken down in spirit, yet the despair thus expressed is lightened by the patience of gentleness. Her head is bound with folds of white drapery, from which the yellow strings of her golden hair escape and fall about her neck. The moulding of her face is exquisitely delicate, the eyebrows are distinct and arched, the lips have that permanent meaning of imagination and sensibility which suffering has not repressed and which it seems as if death scarcely could extinguish. Her forehead is large and clear, her eyes, which we are told were remarkable for their vivacity, are swollen with weeping and l.u.s.treless, but beautifully tender and serene. In the whole mien there are simplicity and dignity which, united with her exquisite loveliness and deep sorrow, are inexpressibly pathetic. Beatrice Cenci appears to have been one of those rare persons in whom energy and gentleness dwell together without destroying one another; her nature was simple and profound. The crimes and miseries in which she was an actor and a sufferer are as the mask and the mantle in which circ.u.mstances clothed her for her impersonation in the scene of the world."

To-day, the story is still an oft-told tale in Rome, the portrait of _la Cenci_ is known by all, and all feel pity for her sad fate. However great her crime may have been, it should be taken into account that it was only after "long and vain attempts to escape from what she considered a perpetual contamination, both of mind and body,"--as Sh.e.l.ley puts it,--that she plotted the murder for which she was beheaded; so great was the provocation, that all can pity if pardon be withheld.

The corrupt condition of life in the convents throughout Italy at this time is not a matter of mere conjecture, for the facts are known in many cases and are of such a nature as almost to pa.s.s belief. One reason for this state of affairs is to be found in the character of the women who composed these conventual orders. It is natural to think of them as holy maidens of deep religious instincts, who had taken the veil to satisfy some spiritual necessity of their being; unfortunately, the picture is untrue. In many of these convents, and particularly in those where vice was known to flourish, the membership was largely recruited from the ranks of the n.o.bility, it being the custom to send unmarried, unmarriageable, and unmanageable daughters to the shelter of a cloister, simply to get them out of the way. Women who had transgressed, to their own disgrace, the commonly accepted social laws, whether married or unmarried, found ready protection here; a professed nun was under the care of the Church and had nothing to fear from the state, and this fact was not unknown. To show how clearly this condition was understood at the time, it is interesting to note that when the scandal concerning the convent of Santa Chiara was first made public, an easy-going priest, who had acted as a go-between in many of these intrigues of the cloister, said that he could not see why people in general should create so much confusion about it, as these were only "affairs of the gentlefolk [_cosi di gentilhuomini_]"!

The public disgrace of Santa Chiara was due to the evil ways of one of its members, Sister Umilia, a woman who had had some experience in worldly things before she turned her back upon them. Her name was Lucrezia Malpigli, and, as a young girl, she had loved and desired to marry Ma.s.similiano Arnolfini; but her parents objected, and she was affianced to the three Buonvisi brothers in consecutive order before she finally found a husband, the two older brothers dying each time before the wedding ceremony. After her marriage, to her misfortune, she met, at Lucca, Arnolfini, the man whom she had loved as a girl at Ferrara, and it soon appeared that the old love was not dead. Within a short time her husband was stabbed, by Arnolfini's bravo, as he was returning with her from the church, and rumors were at once afloat implicating her in the murder. Guilty or not, she was frightened, and before four days had pa.s.sed she had taken refuge in the convent of Santa Chiara. Safe from all pursuit, she endowed the convent most liberally, cut her hair, and became the Sister Umilia, who was described as a "young woman, tall and pale, dressed in a nun's habit, with a crown upon her head." For thirteen years little was heard of her, and then a telltale rope ladder hanging from the convent wall led to disclosures of a most revolting nature. It was discovered that the supposedly pious nuns were profligates, the convent was a veritable den of iniquity, and Sister Umilia was found to have several lovers who were disputing her favors.

Poisons had been sent to her by a young n.o.bleman, Tommaso Samminiati, that she might dispose of a certain Sister Calidonia, who had become repentant and was threatening to reveal the secrets of their life; and the poisons were so deadly, so the letter ran, that when once Calidonia had swallowed a certain white powder, "if the devil does not help her, she will pa.s.s from this life in half a night's time, and without the slightest sign of violence." Penalties were inflicted upon all of these offending nuns, and Umilia was imprisoned for nine years before she was restored to liberty and allowed to wear again the convent dress.

However black this picture may appear, it is pa.s.sing fair when compared with the career of the notorious Lady of Monza. Virginia Maria de Leyva was a lady of n.o.ble birth who had entered the convent of Santa Margherita, at Monza, where she had taken the veil, being induced to take this step because her cousin had in some way deprived her of her inheritance, and without a dowry she had not found marriage easy. In the convent, because she was well born and well connected, she became a person of much influence and received many callers. Adjoining the convent was the residence of young Gianpaolo Osio, a reckless, amorous dare-devil, who was _beau comme le jour_, as the French fairy tales say.

So much of the story having been told, it is not difficult to guess what is to come. It was a case of love at first sight, and Osio was aided in his conquest by a number of the older and more corrupt nuns and several other people about the convent, not excepting the father confessor, who wrote some of Osio's love letters and seemed to smile upon the affair and wish it all success. Virginia yielded, as might have been expected under such circ.u.mstances; and the amour ran along smoothly for several years, until Virginia and Osio, with the help of four obliging nuns, felt constrained to take the life of a disgruntled serving-maid who was threatening to reveal all to Monsignor Barca, the inspector of the convent, at the time of his approaching visit. When once the deed was done, the corpse was dismembered for purposes of better concealment; but suspicion was aroused by this sudden disappearance of the maid, and Osio took Virginia from the place, to shield her as much as possible. Next, he offered to help her two most active accomplices, Ottavia and Benedetta, to escape and seek refuge in a Bergamasque convent, where they would be safe; but on the way thither he treacherously a.s.saulted them and left them both for dead. One crime rarely covers up another, however; the facts soon came to light, and all concerned were fitly punished. Virginia was sentenced to perpetual imprisonment in the convent of Santa Valeria, at Milan; and there she remained for many years, in a dark cell, until she was finally given better quarters through the interposition of Cardinal Borromeo, who had been impressed by her growing reputation for sanct.i.ty. How old she grew to be, deponent saith not, but she must have lived for many years, as the following description will attest: "a bent old woman, tall of stature, dried and fleshless, but venerable in her aspect, whom no one could believe to have been once a charming and immodest beauty."

What an awful century it was! Vice and corruption in all quarters, the pope an acknowledged sinner, the n.o.bility tainted, and even the holy daughters of the Church virgins in name only! And this was the century in which the most beautiful Madonnas were painted!

CHAPTER IX

THE BRIGHTER SIDE OF THE SIXTEENTH CENTURY

The tales of crime and sensuality which fill the annals of the sixteenth century are so repulsive that it is with a feeling of relief that we turn our attention to other pictures of the same time which are altogether pleasing in their outlines. The court of the Duke of Urbino is the most conspicuous example of this better side of life, and his talented and accomplished wife, Elizabetta Gonzaga, a daughter of the reigning house of Mantua, presided over a literary salon which was thronged with all the wit and wisdom of the land. Urbino was but a rocky, desolate bit of mountainous country, not more than forty miles square, in the Marches of Ancona, on a spur of the Tuscan Apennines, about twenty miles from the Adriatic and not far from historic Rimini, but here was a most splendid princ.i.p.ality with a glittering court.

Federigo, Count of Montefeltro, had been created Duke of Urbino by Pope Sixtus IV. in 1474, and he it was who laid the foundations for that prosperous state which at his death pa.s.sed into the hands of his son Guidobaldo, the husband of Elizabetta. Federigo's immense wealth was not gained by burdening his subjects with heavy taxes, but rather from the money which he was able to earn as a military leader, for he was a n.o.ble soldier of fortune. Vespasiano tells us, with regard to his military science, that he was excelled by no general of his time, and his good faith was never questioned. He was also a man of singularly religious nature, and no morning pa.s.sed without his hearing ma.s.s upon his knees.

In his lifetime he served no less than three pontiffs, two kings of Naples, and two dukes of Milan; the republic of Florence and several Italian leagues had appointed him their general in the field, and in this long life of warfare the sums of money paid him for his services were immense. Dennistoun relates that in the year 1453 "his war-pay from Alfonso of Naples exceeded eight thousand ducats a month, and for many years he had from him and his son an annual peace-pension of six thousand ducats in the name of past services. At the close of his life, when general of the Italian league, he drew, in war, one hundred and sixty-five thousand ducats of annual stipend, forty-five thousand being his own share." With this wealth he caused his desert-like domain to rejoice and blossom as the rose. His magnificent fortified palace was most elaborately decorated with rare marbles and priceless carvings, frescos, panel pictures, tapestries, tarsia work, stucco reliefs, and works of art of all kinds; here, according to his biographer Muzio, he maintained a suite so numerous and distinguished as to rival that of any royal household. So famed indeed did Urbino become, that all the chivalry of Italy crowded the palace to learn manners and the art of war from its courteous duke.

Further details are furnished by Vespasiano, who says that "his household, which consisted of five hundred mouths entertained at his own cost, was governed less like a company of soldiers than a strict religious community. There was no gaming or swearing, but the men conversed with the utmost sobriety." It is interesting to know that among his court officers were included forty-five counts of the duchy and of other states, seventeen gentlemen, five secretaries, four teachers of grammar, logic, and philosophy, fourteen clerks in public offices, five architects and engineers, five readers during meals, and four transcribers of ma.n.u.scripts. Federigo had ever shown himself a liberal and enlightened monarch, and he had early acquired a solid culture which enabled him, when he grew to manhood, to bestow his patronage in an intelligent manner. Scholars and artists were cl.u.s.tered about him in great numbers; Urbino was widely known as the Italian Athens, and as one of the foremost centres of art and literature in all Europe, when Elizabetta Gonzaga was wedded to Guidobaldo and became the chatelaine of the palace. The young duke and his wife began their life together under the most auspicious circ.u.mstances. From what his tutor, Odasio of Padua, says about his boyhood, it is evident that if he were alive to-day he could easily obtain one of the Cecil Rhodes Oxford fellowships, for we are told that he cared only for study and for manly sports, and that he was of an upright character. His memory was so retentive that he could repeat whole books, word for word, after many years, and in more ways than one he had displayed a wonderful precocity.

Elizabetta, too, had been given a most liberal and careful education, and her ready intelligence was equalled only by her careful tact and her perfect _savoir faire_. Indeed, on account of her many attainments, personal charm, and her refining influence, which was far-reaching, she may be likened to that celebrated Frenchwoman Catherine de Vivonne, Madame de Rambouillet, whose hotel was, a century later, such a rendezvous for the gentler spirits of France in that hurly-burly period which followed the religious wars. Endowed as she was by nature, it was by most fortuitous circ.u.mstance that she was called to preside over the court of Urbino, for at that time there was no other woman in Italy who was so fitted for such a distinguished position. It was in the last decade of the _quattrocento_ that Elizabetta was married, and she found cl.u.s.tered about her from the very start ill.u.s.trious artists and men of letters. Melozzo da Forli and Giovanni Santi--Raphael's father--were there, and there the early youth of Raphael was spent; Jan van Eyck and Justus of Ghent, the great Flemish painters, were also there, and the palace was adorned with many monuments to their skill. Here it was that Piero della Francesca had written his celebrated work on the science of perspective, Francesco di Giorgio his _Trattato d'Architettura_, and Giovanni Santi his poetical account of the artists of his time; and here it was in the first days of the sixteenth century that Elizabetta was the centre of a group which was all sweetness and light when compared with the prevailing habits of life.

In this circle were to be found, among others, Bernardo Bibbiena, the patron of Berni, of whom Raphael has left us a portrait which is now in the Pitti Palace; Giuliano de' Medici, whose marble statue by Michael Angelo may still be seen in San Lorenzo at Florence; Cardinal Pietro Bembo, who had in his youth fallen a victim to the charms of Lucrezia Borgia when she first went to Ferrara; Emilia Pia, the wife of Antonio da Montefeltro, who is described as "a lady of so lively wit and judgment, that she seems to govern the whole company"; and last, but far from least, Balda.s.sare Castiglione, that model courtier and fine wit, who has left a picture of Urbino in his celebrated book _Il Cortegiano_, which was long known in Italy as _Il Libro d'Oro_. This volume is an elaborate discussion of the question, What const.i.tutes a perfect courtier; and it was for a long time a most comprehensive and final compendium, handbook, and guide for all who wished to perfect themselves in courtly grace. What interests us most in the book, however, is the fact that Castiglione has put this discussion of polite manners into the form of a conversation which he supposes to have taken place in the drawing room of the Countess of Urbino, that being the most likely spot in all Europe for such a discussion at such a time, for Guidobaldo's court was "confessedly the purest and most elevated in all Italy." Castiglione was one of Elizabetta's most ardent admirers, and he says of her that no one "approached but was immediately affected with secret pleasure, and it seemed as if her presence had some powerful majesty, for surely never were stricter ties of love and cordial friendship between brothers than with us."

Count Guidobaldo early became a cripple and an invalid, too ardent devotion to books and to athletic pursuits at the same time having undermined a const.i.tution that was never strong; therefore, it was his custom to retire for the night at an early hour; but it was in the evening that the countess held court, and then were gathered together, for many years, all the brightest minds of Italy, who felt the charm of her presence and the value of her stimulating personality. Urbino was a school of good manners, as Naples had been in the days of Queen Joanna; it was the first great literary salon in modern history, and, presided over by a woman who was a veritable _grande dame de societe_, its influence was by no means confined to a narrow sphere. Even in far-away England, Urbino was known and appreciated; and Henry VII., to show his esteem for its ruler, conferred the Order of the Garter upon Guidobaldo.

In acknowledgment of this favor, Castiglione was sent to the English court to bear the thanks of his lord, and with him he took as a present Raphael's _Saint George and the Dragon_, which, by the way, was taken from England when Cromwell ordered the sale of the art treasures of Charles I., and may now be seen at the Louvre. The old Count Federigo had made all this refined magnificence possible, it is true, and Guidobaldo had been in every way a worthy successor to his father, though lacking his rugged strength; but to Guidobaldo's wife, the gracious and wise Elizabetta Gonzaga, belongs the credit for having kept Urbino up to a high standard--an achievement of which few, if any, other women of her time were capable. There was needed a person who combined worldly knowledge with education and a sane, decent philosophy of life, and Guidobaldo's wife was that person.

Veronica Gambara deserves a place among the good and ill.u.s.trious women of this time; and though she occupied a position far less conspicuous than that of the Countess of Urbino, she was still a person of reputation and importance. Born in the year 1485, her "fortunate parents," as Zamboni calls them, gave her a most careful and thorough education, and as a young woman she was noted for her poetic gifts, which were of a high order. At the age of twenty-five she married Ghiberto, Count of Correggio, and their union was one of true sympathy and deep attachment, such as was rarely seen then, when the _mariage de convenance_ was more in vogue, perhaps, than it is in these later days in Paris. Nine happy years they spent together, and two sons were born to them; then Ghiberto died, leaving Veronica in such grief that she fell ill and hovered a long time between life and death. In one of her poems she relates that it was the fear that she might not meet her beloved husband in Paradise which prevented her from dying with him. She had work to do, however, as her husband, in sign of his great confidence in her, had made her his sole executrix and given into her care the government of Correggio. Veronica had always possessed a lively imagination, and now in her grief her sorrow was shown to the world in a most extravagant way. She wore the heaviest and blackest mourning obtainable; her apartments, furnished henceforth with the bare necessities of life, were tapestried in black; and black was the hue of her livery, her carriages, and her horses. To further proclaim to all the world her love for the departed, she had painted over the door of her chamber the couplet which Virgil has ascribed to Dido:

"Ille meos, primus qui me sibi junxit, amores Abstulit: ille habeat sec.u.m servetque sepulchro!"

[He who first linked me to himself hath borne away my affection: may he possess it still and retain it in his grave!]