CHAPTER V.
"Who is that man?" asked Lorenzo Visconti in a low tone, while Leonora stood before the stranger, silent and, as it were, subdued.
"That is her father, Ramiro d'Orco," answered Bianca Maria; "he has just returned from Romagna, I suppose; he has not been here for a year, and I heard he was there."
"Her father!" exclaimed the youth; "and is it so a child meets a father? Oh God! had I a parent living who came back from a long absence, how I should spring to receive his first caress! how the first tone of his voice--the first sound of his footstep, would move the whole blood within me. I do believe the very proximity of his spirit would make my whole frame thrill, and I should know that he was present before one of my senses assured me of the fact. My father! oh, my father! could you rejoin your son, should I meet you as a stranger, or bow before you as a ruler?"
"It is not her fault, Lorenzo," said her cousin, eagerly, zealous in her friend's cause; "I do not know how to tell you what he is, Lorenzo. He is hard, yet not tyrannical; cold, yet not without affection. There is no tenderness in him, yet he loves her better than aught else on earth, except, I have heard my grandfather say, except ambition. He is liberal to her, allowing her all she wants or wishes, except, indeed, his tenderness and care. You and I are both orphans, Lorenzo, and perhaps we let our fancy lead us to picture exaggerated joy in the love and affection of parents."
"I love him not, Bianca," answered the young man, with a slight shudder; "there is something in his look which seems to chill the blood in one's heart. I can see in that gaze which he bends upon her, why it is her arms are not thrown round his neck, why her lips are not pressed to his, why words of love and affection are not poured forth upon her father when she meets him after a long absence. She is his child, but he is not a father to her--perhaps a tyrant."
"Oh, no, no!" answered the young girl; "he loves her--indeed he does, and he does not tyrannize over her. But whether it is that there is a natural coldness in his manner, or that he affects a certain Roman hardness, I cannot tell; he only shows his love in indulging her in everything she desires, without a tender look or tender word, such as most fond fathers bestow upon a well-loved child."
"And such a child!" said Lorenzo, musing. "Well, it is strange, Bianca; perhaps he may love her truly, and more than many fathers whom I have seen in France fondle their children as if their whole soul was wrapped up in them, and then sacrifice their happiness to the merest caprice--perhaps it may be so, and yet I do not like his looks. I cannot like him. See how he gazes at us now! It is the gaze of a serpent, cold, and hard, and stony. Who was her mother? She can have gained no part of her nature from him."
"Oh, no," cried the young girl, feeling all that he felt, though unwilling to allow it; "she is like him in nothing, except, indeed, the forehead and the shape of her face. Her mother was almost as beautiful as she is. I remember well; it is not three years since she died. She was a great heiress in the Ghiaradda. All she had was on her marriage secured by the forms of law to herself and her children, and they say he strove almost cruelly to make her give it up to him. After her death he obtained possession of it, but not entirely for himself. It was decided that he should possess it till Leonora married, making suitable provision for her maintenance, but that, when she married, the great estates at Castellano should go to her and her husband. My grandfather, who was her mother's uncle, took much interest in the matter, and for a time he and Signor d'Orco were at bitter enmity; but when the case was decided, and it was found that Leonora's father assigned her more for her portion than the law would have demanded, my grandfather became convinced that he had striven only for what he conceived a right, and became reconciled to him. Indeed, he is quite liberal in all things concerning her; allows her the revenue of a princess, and is himself a man of small expense; but it seems his is an unbending nature. He lets her do what she wills in most things--seldom thwarts her; but when he speaks his own will, there is no appeal from it--neither to his heart nor his mind. I can often persuade my grandfather, though he is quick and hasty, as you know, and sometimes convince him, but it is of no use to try to do either with Ramiro d'Orco."
Lorenzo fancied he comprehended, at least in a degree, the character which, in her youthful way, she strove to depict; but yet there was something in the look of Leonora's father which left a dark, unpleasant impression upon his mind. There are faces that we love not, but which afford no apparent reason for the antipathy they produce. There is often even beauty which we cannot admire--grace which affords no pleasure. There is, perhaps, nothing more graceful upon earth than the gliding of a snake, never for a moment quitting what the great moral painter called "the line of beauty." There is nothing more rich and resplendent than his jewelled skin, and yet how few men can gaze upon the most gorgeous of that reptile race without a shuddering sensation of its enmity to man? Can it be that in the breast of the reasoning human creature, God, for a farther security than mere intellect against a being that is likely to injure, implants an instinct of approaching danger which no fairness of form, no engagingness of manner can at first compensate? It may be so. At all events, I have seen instances where something very like it was apparent. And yet, with time, the impression wears away; the spirit has spoken once its word of warning; if that word is not enough, it never speaks again. The snake has the power of fascinating the bird which, in the beginning, strove to escape from him; and we forget the monitor which told us our danger.
In an hour from that time Lorenzo was sitting at the same table with Ramiro d'Orco, listening well pleased to searching and deep views of the state of Italy, expressed, not indeed with eloquence, for he was not an eloquent man, but with a force and point he had seldom heard equalled.
It would not be easy to give his words, for, even were they recorded, they would lose their strength in the translation; but the substance we know, and it would give a very different picture of Italy in that day from any that can be drawn at present. We see it not alone dimmed by the distance of time, but in a haze of our own prejudices. We may gather, perhaps, the great results; but we can, I believe, in no degree divine the motives, and most of the details are lost. Read the history of any one single man in those days, as portrayed by modern writers, and compare one author with another. Take for instance that of Lorenzo de Medici, as carefully drawn by Roscoe, or brightly sketched by Sismondi. What can be more different? The facts, indeed, are the same, but how opposite are all the inferences. In both we have the dry bones of the man, but the form of the muscle, and the hue of the complexion are entirely at variance. Writers who undertake to represent the things of a past age are like a painter required to furnish portraits of persons long dead. Tradition may give them some guidance as to the general outline, but the features and the colouring will be their own.
It is therefore with the great facts of the state of Italy at that time that I will deal, as nearly in the view of Ramiro d'Orco as I can; but it must be remembered that his view also was not without its mistiness. If we cannot see early on account of the remoteness of the objects which we contemplate, his vision also was indistinct, obscured by the prejudices of class, interest, party, hope, apprehension, and above all, ambition. He painted the condition of Italy only as Ramiro d'Orco believed it to be. How much even of that belief was to be ascribed to his own desires and objects, who can say?
Lombardy, the great northern portion of Italy, indeed, had ever been isolated from the rest in manners and habits of thought. Italians the Lombards certainly were; but the characteristics of the northern conquerors predominated in that portion of the peninsula. Except at Genoa and in Venice, republicanism in no shape had taken any deep root. From very early times, although the voice of the people had occasionally proclaimed a republic here and there, the babe was strangled ere it got strength, even by those that gave it birth. The epoch of democratic independence in Lombardy lasted barely a century and a half. No republic flourished long north of the River Po, except those I have named, and even the two which took some glory from the name little deserved it. Less real liberty was known in Venice than perhaps existed under the most grinding tyranny of a single man; and Genoa, in her most palmy days, was a prey to aristocratic factions, which soon made the people but slaves to princes. But it must not be supposed that nothing was obtained in return: a more chivalrous and warlike spirit existed in that division of Italy than in the central portion. It was not so early refined, but it was not so speedily softened. Corrupt it might be, and indeed was, to even a fearful degree; but it was the corruption of the hard and the daring, rather than of the weak and effeminate. Men poisoned, and slew, and tortured each other, and the minds of all became so familiar with blood and horror, that much was endured before resistance to oppression was excited; but conspiracies were generally successful in their primary object, because the conspirators were bold and resolute. A tyrant might fall only to give place to another tyrant, but still he fell; and you rarely saw in Lombardy such weakness as was displayed in the enterprise of the Pazzi.
Men in the north fought openly in the field for counties, and marquisates, and dukedoms; but there was little finesse or diplomatic skill displayed except by Venice. There was cunning, indeed, but it was always exercised to gain some military advantage. The ambition of that part of the land was warlike, not peaceful. It was not luxury, and ease, and graceful enjoyment that was desired in combination with power, but it was splendour, and pomp, and domination. Weak tyrants were sure to fall; merely cruel ones generally retained their power; and cunning ones were frequently successful; but it was only by wielding the sword, either by their own hands or those of others.
At the time in which Ramiro d'Orco spoke, every vestige of liberty was extinct in Lombardy. The Visconti, and after them the Sforzi, in Milan; the house of Della Scala, and after them the Visconti, in Verona; the Gonzagas in Mantua; the D'Estes in Ferrara; the Carraras in Padua; the Bentivogli in Bologna, and a hundred other princely houses, had attained power by both policy and the sword, and Genoa had passed frequently from anarchy to subjection, and subjection to anarchy. But the great military school of Alberic de Barbiano had raised up a vigorous and healthy spirit in the people, which, had it lasted, would have secured to both Romagna and Lombardy strength to resist foreign enemies, even if it could not control intestine divisions. But the great company of St. George, founded by Barbiano, was succeeded by two others, who, though they possessed all the energy of their predecessors, and were led by men of very superior abilities, were merely the companies of adventurous soldiers known as the Bracceschi and Sforzeschi. Their swords were at the command of those who could pay them best, and their leaders were men who sought to found dynasties upon military success. In this object Braccio de Montana failed. He was mortally wounded at Aquila in 1424, and his formidable band gradually dispersed, after having passed under the command of several others. Though Sforza perished in passing the Pescara ere he attained the power at which he aimed, the object was accomplished by his son Francesco, who established himself in the ducal throne of Milan.
Thus, at the time when Ramiro d'Orco spoke, in 1494, the whole of Lombardy was under the domination of various princes, commonly and not unjustly called tyrants; but the chivalrous spirit of the people was by no means extinct; and even the course of the arts showed the tendency of the popular mind. It is true, Milan itself was more famous for the manufacture and even the invention of arms than for the fine arts, but in the pictures of that country during this and the preceding centuries saints and martyrs, angels and demons, are frequently represented in knightly harness, and in some it would be difficult to distinguish the messenger of peace from one of the terrible legionaries of the great companies.
It seemed, indeed, as if Lombardy had returned to its normal feudal notions, in which chivalry was inseparably attached to monarchy and aristocracy.
The central states of Italy clung to republican forms of government long after they had been extinguished in the north; but it was republicanism founded upon wealth, not upon purity of character or simplicity of manners--no, nor upon real patriotism. A celebrated writer of late days has spoken of "the virtue of Florence" in this very century. Let us see how that virtue was depicted by the best judges of the times of which he, at this late day, speaks. "I never imagined," said Piero de Medici, father of Lorenzo, on his death-bed, addressing the chief citizens of Florence, "that times would come when the conduct of my friends would force me to esteem and long for the society of my enemies, and wish that I had been defeated instead of victorious." He then went on to reproach them with their vices and their crimes. "You rob your neighbours of their wealth," he said, "you sell justice, you evade the law, you oppress the weak, and exalt the insolent. There are not, throughout all Italy, so many and such dreadful examples of violence and avarice as in this city."
Again Machiavelli describes the youth of Florence as having become "more dissolute than ever, more extravagant in dress, feasting and other licentiousness," and says that, "being without employment they wasted their time and means on gaming and women, their principal care being how to appear splendid in apparel, and obtain a crafty shrewdness in discourse." Nor can I look upon the persevering efforts of that republic to subjugate all the neighbouring cities as a proof of virtue or of love of liberty.
Their military virtues seem to have been upon a par with their domestic qualities. Their battles were fought by hired mercenaries, and where the Florentine forces did appear in the field, they apparently merited the reproach which Machiavelli casts upon the military in general of the central and southern portions of Italy. In describing the campaign of 1467, he says, "A few slight skirmishes took place, but in accordance with the custom of the time, neither of them acted on the offensive, besieged any town, or gave the other any opportunity of coming to a general battle; but each kept within its tents, and they conducted themselves with the most remarkable pusillanimity." Indeed, his description of all the battles in which none of the great condottieri were engaged, is merely ludicrous. Moreover, the political virtues of the people seem, at this time at least, not to have surpassed those of the heart and mind. Florence had the name of a republic, but its government was in reality an oligarchy. There is a consciousness in man that persons whose time is devoted to daily labour have not those opportunities of mental culture, and that leisure for deep thought, which alone can fit men for the task of leading and governing. However strong may be democratic sentiment, however jealously tenacious of the name of equality citizens may be, there is, in the natural course of all communities, a tendency to produce an aristocracy. In the warring elements of a political chaos, the first efforts of order are to resolve the people into classes--nay, into castes. The hatred of hereditary authority generally directs these efforts to elevate riches to the highest place. The wealthy, in whom one sort of pre-eminence is already obvious, are not so obnoxious at first sight as those who have no real source of influence but the intangible one of birth; and thus from republics, founded frequently upon purely democratic principles, generally rises the most hateful and debasing of all aristocracies, the aristocracy of wealth. This had long been the case with Florence at the time I speak of: wealth was nobility, and that nobility was rapidly tending toward monarchy. Lorenzo de Medici had exercised until his death, in April, 1492, an anomalous sovereignty, denied the character of prince of a monarchical state, and yet divested of the restraints of a magistrate of a free people. He was addressed by all public bodies and all private persons as "Most Magnificent Lord," and swayed the destinies of the country, influenced the character of the people, and deeply affected the fate of all Italy, without any legal right or actual station. His was solely a monarchy of influence, and, though even Cromwell felt the necessity of giving to his power the sanction of a name, Lorenzo ruled his countrymen till his death in the character of a citizen.
The south of Italy had in the mean time passed through several phases, and the monarchical element had long predominated in its government. The only question was to whom it should belong. Foreign families struggled for the often contested throne; and Italians then only drew their swords or raised their voices in favour of one or another usurper. The destinies of the north and the south were sealed; and in Tuscany no wide field was offered for ambition. A man might raise himself to a certain degree by subservience to some powerful prince, but he must continue to serve that prince, or he fell, and would never aspire to independent domination where hereditary power was recognised by the people, and lay at the foundation of all acknowledged authority. It was alone in central Italy, and especially in Romagna and in the States of the Church--where a principle antagonistic to all hereditary claims existed in the very nature of the Papal power--that any adventurer could hope, either by his individual genius or courage, or by services rendered to those who already held authority, to raise himself to independent rule, or to that station which was only attached to a superior by the thin and nearly worn-out thread of feudal tenure.
"Those who would find fortune," said Ramiro d'Orco, "such fortune as Francesco Sforza conquered and the Medici attained must seek it at Rome. There is the field, the only field still open to the bold spirit, the strong, unwavering heart, the keen and clear-seeing mind--there is the table on which the boldest player is sure to win the most. With every change of the papacy, new combinations, and, consequently, new opportunities must arise, and, thanks to the wise policy of the College of Cardinals, those changes must be frequent. A man there may, as elsewhere, be required to serve in order at length to command; but if he do not obtain power at length, it is his fault or Fortune's, and in either case he must abide the consequences. Good night, Signor Rovera."