CHAPTER XXXVIII.
I have heard it said that the world is weary of the picturesque in writing, tired of landscape painters, eager only for the tale or for the characters--the pepper and salt of fiction. So be it. But yet there is something in a scene--in the place, in the very spot where any great events are enacted, which gives not only an identity, but a harmony to the narrative of these events. Imola, with its old castle and its sombre walls, now repaired and strengthened by the care of Ramiro d'Orco, lay, like the hard and rugged stone of the peach, in the centre of more sweet and beautiful things.
That was the age of villa building in Italy, and, as I have shown in a previous part of this work, some of the noblest architects that the world ever produced had already appeared, and produced specimens of a new and characteristic style, unsurpassed by any other efforts. Imola was surrounded by villas, but there was one more costly and extensive than any of the rest, which hung upon the hill-side, with gardens, and terraces, and fountains round about. The villa now belonged to Ramiro d'Orco, and thither he would often retire, after the labours of the day were over, to walk, solitary and thoughtful, as was his wont, under the great stone-pines which lined the avenue.
It was the favourite home of Leonora; for, though she was so much changed in every habit, if not in every thought, there was one exception--she still loved to sit beneath the trees or upon a terrace, whence she could see over a wide landscape. She no longer sought absolute solitude, it is true; she suffered herself not to be plunged into those deep fits of thought, which had been her only comfort during Lorenzo's long absence at Naples. Usually she had one of her maids with her, well-educated girls, who could converse, though not very profoundly; and their light talk, though it did not always wean her mind from the subjects on which it was bent, just sufficed to ripple the too still waters of meditation.
She was thus seated one afternoon, just in the beginning of the autumn, in an angle of the gardens, whence she could see on all sides around but one, with a girl named Carlotta at her feet. If there be aught on earth which deserves the name of divine, it is the weather in some parts of Italy when the summer has lost its full heat, and the autumn knows nothing yet of wintry chill, when the grape is just beginning to grow purple, and the cheek of the fig looks warm. Such was that day, and it would seem that the balmy influence of the air and the brightness of the scene had their influence upon poor Leonora, bringing back some of the gaiety and sportiveness of other years.
"So, foolish Carlotta," said her mistress, "you must needs go down to the dusty town this morning--to see your lover, I warrant, and arrange for this wedding I have heard of."
Carlotta blushed and smiled, and said "Ay;" and her mistress gave her a tap upon the cheek, exclaiming--
"Out upon you, silly girl! can you not be content without making yourself a slave?"
"It is woman's nature, lady," replied the girl; "we all like to be slaves to those we love. I do believe that there is no woman who does not wish to marry; and do you know, lady, that people wonder that you have never given your hand to any one."
"I!" exclaimed Leonora, with a start, and an expression almost of pain upon her face; "I marry any one! I wish to marry any one! to be the passive plaything of a rude boor--to be sported with at his will and pleasure--to have the sanctity of my chamber invaded by a coarse man! When I think of it, I cannot but marvel that any woman, with the feelings of a woman, can so degrade herself."
"The feelings of the woman prompt her, lady," said Carlotta; "but, do you know, I saw a man at Mother Agostina's--that is, my Bernardino's aunt--a courier just returned from France, and he told me that all the people there say that you are married."
"More likely to be buried, my Carlotta," replied Leonora; "but what have the people of France to do with me?"
"Why, they seem to have a great deal to do with Italy now," rejoined the girl. "Since the pope's son has been to the place they call Chinon, and has been made Duke of Valentinois by the new King of France, that monarch seems to be as much pope in Rome as the Holy Father himself. Have you not heard, lady, that a whole crowd of Frenchmen--lords and knights, and such like--are coming over with some chosen troops to help Alexander and the new duke to make up a great duchy here in Italy for him who used to be a cardinal, and who is now a soldier?"
"No, I have heard nothing of it," replied Leonora; "doubtless my father has, if the gossip be true."
"Oh! it is quite true, lady," replied the girl; "all was in preparation when Giacomo came away, and, besides, at the King of France's desire, the pope has made one of these young lords Prefect of Romagna. But he is Italian by birth, they say, and a cousin of the King of France, and brings his beautiful young wife with him."
Leonora rose from her seat and gazed into the girl's eyes for a moment in silence, with a look that almost frightened poor Carlotta. "Did you hear his name?" she asked, at length.
"It was Lorenzo something," replied the girl; "Visconti, I think."
Leonora turned away abruptly, and with a quick step climbed the hill, entered the villa, and sought her own apartments. She passed through the ante-room, and through that where her maids sat embroidering, without speaking a word, and entering her own chamber, cast herself down upon her bed and wept.
"Fool! fool! fool that I am!" she cried, at length, starting up. "I thought I had torn it out by the roots; but it is there still."
She drew the dagger, in its sheath of velvet and gold, from her bosom, gazed at it for a moment and murmured,
"Only this, or what this gives, can root it out; but no, no, I am not mad. This will all pass away. I will conquer it now--even now. I may have to see him again! Then I will look upon him now, as he was when I believed him faithful and true, as he was when he seemed all that was noble and just," and, opening a drawer in the table, she took forth a small, beautiful gilded frame, in the centre of which appeared the sketch of Lorenzo which had been drawn by Leonardo da Vinci. "Ah! picture," she said, gazing at it, "how often hast thou been my comfort and solace in other hours--ay, even to the last; for who could gaze upon that noble face and think the soul so base! Lorenzo! Lorenzo! you have made my misery! Pray God that you have not made your own too. What has become of good Leonardo's auguries? what of his dream, that by the features you could read the spirit? But it matters not. I will steel myself to meet you, should you come--to gaze upon this fair wife you have preferred to Leonora, and who, men say, is so light, and so unworthy of the man I thought you. Perhaps she may suit you better than I should have done; for God knows she cannot be more fickle than you are. Yes, the momentary madness is passing away. I shall soon be myself again, and will play my part to the end, let it be what it may."
"Madam, a cavalier below desires to see you," said a servant, opening the door abruptly. Leonora started with a look almost of terror, for her mind was so full of one object that she thought the stranger could be no other than Lorenzo; but the servant went on: "He says his name is Leonardo da Vinci, and that you know him."
"This is strange," said Leonora to herself; and then turning to the man she added, "take him to my own saloon, and see that he and his servants be well cared for. I will be down in a few moments."
She washed away the marks of tears from her eyes, brushed smooth her hair, and then descended the short flight of steps which led as a private way from her chamber to the gorgeous room below, which was known and held sacred as her own saloon. She found the great painter standing in the midst, and gazing at some fine pictures which ornamented the walls.
"Welcome, signor," she said--"most welcome to Imola. No other house must be your home while you are here than this, or my father's palace in the citadel."
"Your pardon, bright lady," said Leonardo, gazing at her, "my home is ever an inn, and I cannot sacrifice my liberty even to you."
"You are wise, maestro," answered Leonora, somewhat gravely. "No man should sacrifice his liberty to a woman, nor any woman to a man. It is a new creed I have got, but I think it is a good one."
"Old creeds are best," replied Leonardo, seriously. "We can advance from one to another, as we can mount the steps of a temple to the holy of holies, but each step must be founded upon that which went before, and each must rest upon truth."
"Alas! where shall we find truth?" asked Leonora; and then she added, in a melancholy but sweet tone, "Let us not approach painful subjects, my good friend. We cannot meet without thinking of them. If we speak of them we shall think of them still more. I know that truth is in my own heart--where else I know not."
"Perhaps where you least think," replied the painter; "but you are right, lady. Could it do any good, I might speak even of the most painful things; but where the irrevocable seal is fixed it is vain to explain--vain to regret. You are as beautiful as ever, I see, but with that change which change of thought and feeling brings. I have come to paint your picture; and I can paint it now better than I could when we last met."
"Indeed! How so?" asked Leonora.
"Because it is easier to paint matter than spirit--angel or demon, as the case may be--which, transfusing itself through the whole frame, breathes from the face and animates every movement. Again, at other times, it leaves the human tenement vacant, or sits retired in a corner of the heart, pondering the bitterness of life. Mere animal life then acts and carries us through the business of existence; but the sentient, feeling soul is dead or entranced, and pervades not the face or limbs with that varying beauty which is so difficult for the painter to seize and to transfer. I can paint you better now than formerly; and the painting to the common eye will be more beautiful, but to mine and to the poet's there may be a lack of something--of that expression of soul which the features require for harmony--and yet it is not entirely wanting. When you first came in, there was a rigidity about your look, as if you mastered some emotion. Now there is more light, as if there were emotion still. You must have suffered agitation lately. Forgive me. I am a rough, plain-spoken man, too apt to give counsel where it is not sought, and to note feelings people would wish concealed."
"You see too deeply and too well," replied Leonora; "but still I say, maestro, let us not converse on such things. The past is dead. The present, alas! has no life in it for me. Emotion is the most transient of all things with me. Like a stone dropped by a boy into a still lake, it may go deep but ripples the surface only for a moment, and all is still again. If you wish my portrait, take it; but let not our thoughts be saddened while the work is beneath your hand by memories of other days, when happiness gave that spirit to my face which, as you judge rightly, has departed for ever. Let us talk of art, of science--what you will, in short; for I have studied much since last we met, and can encounter you with more knowledge, but not less humility; but let us speak no more of buried feelings, the very ghosts of which bring fear and anguish with them."
"Alas! that it should be so, sweet lady," replied Leonardo; "but, sad as may be your fate, there may be others, seemingly more happy, who are more miserable still.
"Nay, I am not miserable," she answered; but then, recollecting the keen insight of the man she spoke to, she paused and added, "If I am, 'tis but in fits. As an old wound, I am told, long healed, will smart with a change of weather, so at times my heart will ache when something comes to weaken it. But enough of this, maestro. Look at those pictures on the wall. Those three are by one hand, and that the hand of a youth. Are they not beautiful?"
"Nay, they are sublime," replied Leonardo. "Who is the painter? He will one day be one of the mighty men of his day."
"His name is Buonaroti Simoni," replied Leonora, "I brought them with me from Florence. My father has two more, which he will show you."
She thus changed the subject to one of colder interest; but when Leonardo left her, some of his words lingered in her mind, and brought back to her thoughts things which had better been forgotten.
"'Perhaps I might find truth where I least thought,'" said Leonora to herself. "Those were his words. What can he mean? 'There may be those, seemingly more happy, who are more miserable still.' There is something beneath all this; but it is vain--vain--all vain. I will think of it no more;" and yet she thought.