CHAPTER XXVI.
The most successful men in life are usually those who, by experience or by instinct, have learned to calculate other people's actions. It is not invariably so, although, at first sight, such ought naturally to be the result. If a man knows and sees all the paths around him clearly, surely he ought to be able to choose that which will lead him to the end he has in view.
But we always forget one element in our calculation of others, namely, self. We omit it altogether, or we do not give it its just value. Yet what an important element it is! We may know--we may calculate, in general or in detail, what will be the course in which each man's mind will lead him; but if we know not ourselves, we can never direct the results; for, take away the main-spring from the watch, and the cogs and wheels are idle.
However that may be, Antonio was one of the keenest and most clear-sighted men at that time in Italy, although his fortunes were still humble, and his prospects not very brilliant. It required no very deep consideration to show a man of his character that Lorenzo would be at his quarters almost as soon as himself. He therefore walked quickly, and had not waited five minutes before his young lord was in the room.
"I wish to Heaven I could help bantering," thought Antonio, as he sat expecting every minute to hear Lorenzo's foot on the stairs; "it is as well to be serious sometimes; but, on my life, the more one lives in this world the less one thinks there is anything serious in it. It is all one great farce from beginning to end, and the only people who cannot look upon it as a joke are infants who have skewers stuck into them by their nurses, men who are going to be broken on the wheel, and young lovers. These are the folks, especially the last, who cannot understand a joke. But here he comes; I must try to be grave."
"Now, Antonio," said Lorenzo, eagerly, "let me hear all about your journey;" and then he added with that sort of dalliance with the desired subject which youth and love are wont to show, "How long were you in getting to Florence?"
"Upon my soul, my lord, I cannot tell," replied Antonio, "unless I were to stay to calculate how many inns I stopped at, how many times my horse cast a shoe, and how often I had to go round to get out of the way of some wild beast or another. But I got there as fast as I could, be sure of that; and even then I was disappointed, for when I got to Madonna Francesca's house I found everything shut up, and nothing but an old custode so deaf that he could not distinguish between Francesca and Ghibellina, for he told me that was the street when I asked for his mistress. I made him comprehend at last by signs, and I then found out that the whole family, servants, pages, etc., had all gone to the villa on the Bolognese road to spend the summer. There, of course, I had to go; but I put it off from the grey of the night, as it then was, till the grey of the next morning; and a fine old place it is. Don't you recollect it, signor, when we were in Florence long ago? just up in the chestnut woods on the second slope of the mountains."
Lorenzo shook his head. "Well," continued Antonio, "it is somewhat like that villa you admired close by Urbino, half castle, half palace. On one side it looks as gloomy as a prison, and on the other as gay and light as a fire-fly; and it has such a beautiful view all over the Val d'Arno, running up to San Miniato, and taking in Heaven knows how much of the country over the hills!"
"Well, well," said Lorenzo, impatiently, "I trust I shall see it ere long."
"Well, my lord, I put up my horse," continued Antonio, "and asked among the servants for the signora. All the people recollected me, and I found she had a habit of sitting out in the garden in the early morning, just as she used to do at the Villa Rovera, which shows how people can be mistaken, for I thought she would have given up that custom when there was no person to sit with her; but they said she would sit there and think for hours."
Lorenzo smiled, for he thought that he knew of whom she was thinking, and he remembered that, even in the bustle of the march, he had passed many an hour sitting listlessly on his horse, thinking of her.
"Well, I did not find her very easily, my lord," continued Antonio, "for it is a curious labyrinth of a place--villa, and gardens, and all--but a last I caught sight of something like a white robe just in the shade of a tall old cypress tree. The beautiful lady was very flattering to me; and I am a personable sort of a man, I believe, not easily to be forgotten when once seen. But she remembered me in a minute, and started up and ran forward to meet me, crying out, 'What news--what news, Antonio? Is he safe--is he well?' Then she gave me her hand to kiss, and I kissed it, and put your letter into it, and then she kissed the letter; but it was a hypocritical kiss, that, for she tore it the next minute in a very barbarous manner, in order to get at the inside. Then she kissed it again and read it. Then she read it again, and she did not speak a word for nearly half an hour, but went back and picked out little bits of the letter, just as a child picks the nice bits out of a pie."
"Out upon you, Antonio!" cried Lorenzo; "here the dear girl has been showing all the warm feelings of her heart only for you to laugh at."
"Indeed, I was more like to cry, for she herself cried in the end, and the tears flowed over the long black lashes and fell upon the letter, and had I been a crying person, I must fain have wept to keep her company. It is very funny, my lord, that people cry when they are extremely happy, for I am quite certain that Donna Leonora was not crying for sorrow then, and yet she cried as if her eyes were fountains of diamonds; and then she wiped them with her kerchief, and turned away her head and laughed, and said, 'This is very foolish, Antonio, but I have been dreaming of this letter's coming so long, and now it is so much sweeter than I thought it would be, that--' and then she forgot what she was going to say, or perhaps she never intended to say anything more; but I understand very well what she meant, for all that."
Antonio paused, but Lorenzo was not yet half satisfied. He taxed the man's memory to the utmost. I am not sure he did not tax his imagination also to tell him every word, and to describe every look of Leonora. Then he made him speak of the villa; and there Antonio was quite at home, for, during the three days he had stayed, nothing had escaped his attention. He knew every corner in the house, and every walk or terrace in the gardens; and a strange, wild, rambling place it must have been, the manifold intricacies of which spoke but too plainly the terrible and lawless times which existed at the time of its construction, and which, alas! existed still.
The ruins may still be seen upon the slope of the Apennines, and many a passage and chamber may be found lighted only by the rays which can find their way through a thin plate of marble undistinguishable on the outside from the wall or rock. The light thus afforded, be it remarked, though dim, and at first hardly sufficient to guide the footsteps, is mild and pleasant, and the eye soon becomes accustomed to it.
Mona Francesca and sweet Leonora d'Orco have passed away; the walls have crumbled, and in many parts fallen; on base, and capital, and fluted column wild weeds and tangling briers have rooted themselves, but a short, smooth turf, dotted with the deep-blue gentia, leads from the high road to the villa; and where several terraces once cut upon the side of the hill, may still be traced, and over which the feet of Leonora once daily walked, a thick covering of short myrtle, with its snowy stars, has sprung up, as if fragrance and beauty rose from her very tread.
Antonio described the place as it then was, and the young lover fancied he could see the first, dearest object of his ardent nature wandering amid the cypresses which led in along avenue from the villa to the convent higher up the hill, or seated upon the terrace looking toward Naples and counting, with the painful longing which he felt in his own heart, the long hours which had to elapse ere they could meet again.
It seemed as if Antonio's eyes could look into his heart, for just at the moment when that longing had reached its highest point, he said quietly, "I wonder, my lord, that you do not quit this French service and court, and here, in our own beautiful Italy, spend the rest of your days, when you have here large estates, and the loveliest and sweetest lady in all the world ready to give you her hand for the asking. On my life, I would take the cup of happiness when it is full. Heaven knows, if you let it pass, how empty it may be when it comes round again, if ever."
Wise, wise Antonio! you have learned early the truth of the words of your old patron,
"Chi voul esser lieto sia.
Di doman non c'e certezza."
Lorenzo remained silent and thoughtful, and it must be owned the temptation was very strong; but he remained silent, as I have said, and the man went on. "What advantage can you, sir, gain from France? What tie binds you to follow a monarch engaged in the wildest enterprises that ever entered a vainglorious head!"
"Hush! hush! Antonio," said Visconti; "speak no ill of King Charles. Much leads me to follow him; many advantages can be reaped from France, and advantages which, for my Leonora's sake, I must not neglect. Have I not received from Charles's hands the order of chivalry? Have I not been led by him into the way of glory and renown? Has he not protected my youth, treated me with every kindness, advanced me even above those who are superior to me in all respects?
"And would you have me share in all the glorious and successful past of his career, and leave him at a moment when clouds are gathering in the sky, and danger and difficulty menace his future course? But even were I base enough to do so, where is security, peace, justice, tranquillity to be found in this unhappy land? Were I alone in life, without bond of love, or the happiness of any other depending upon me, I might, indeed, cast myself into the struggling elements now at work in Italy--I might venture all to serve or save my country. But Leonora, what would become of her? France may meet with a reverse or a misfortune, but it can only be for a time. There is peace and security for her I love. Even here, under the banner of the king, is the only safety, the only hope of justice and security. I must not abandon one who can and will give aid and protection to all who serve him faithfully."
"But suppose this king were to die," said Antonio, "where would be your security then?"
"Founded more strongly than ever," answered Lorenzo; "the Duke of Orleans is more nearly related to me than King Charles, and I have always stood high in his favour. But there is no chance of King Charles dying. He is young, healthy, and destined, I trust, to a long life and a long reign. The thought would be far more pleasant to me to take my Leonora into France, where, safe from all the dangers of this beautiful and beloved but distracted land, she might spend her days in security and peace, than to remain with her here, were all the highest prizes of ambition ready to fall into my hand. No, no, Antonio, I must not dream of such things. My lot is cast with that of the King of France, at least for the present. Perchance, ere long, the opportunity may occur of bearing my Leonora away to other lands. I cannot form plans, I cannot even judge of probabilities, where all is uncertainty and confusion; but through the mists of the present and the darkness of the future twinkles still a star of hope, which will guide us home at last, I trust. Now go and get rest and food, Antonio. I have taxed your patience; but you would forgive me if you knew what had been the anxieties of the last few weeks and the relief of this day."
Antonio left him, and Lorenzo turned to Leonora's letter again. As he read he kissed the lines her hand had traced again and again; but they must have a place alone, as showing the character of her who wrote better than any words of mine could do.