Such, in broadest outline, was the education which made of Cecilia Gonzaga, at the age of sixteen, one of the most charming and accomplished ladies in all Italy. Many a princely suitor came riding over the long bridge of San Giorgio to lay his hand and heart at the feet of the Marchese’s golden-haired girl, whose beauty and attainments had set their poets singing. One, in particular, found favour with her father—Oddantonio of Montefeltro, elder brother of that Frederico who had been Cecilia’s fellow-pupil at the “Casa Giocosa.” Oddantonio saw Cecilia, for the first time, on the occasion of Margherita’s marriage with Leonello of Este, fell in love with her immediately, and formally asked for her hand six weeks later. The alliance proposed was one that offered immense political advantages to the House of Gonzaga, and the Marchese eagerly accepted it, though the reputation of his prospective son-in-law was none of the best. In the off-hand way fathers had in those days, when it was a question of arranging their daughters’ matrimonial affairs, the Marquis sent for Cecilia one day, and told her to hold herself ready to be married.
But another Lover than Oddantonio had won Cecilia for Himself. The little Jesukin, with Whom she had played her childish games, Who, grown to manhood, had changed the water of the old philosophies into the wine of truth for her drinking, Who had sanctified the dust of the earth’s materialism because His Feet had touched it, and made the World a Sacred Place because He had died in it, was the Beloved of her heart.
As Magdalene, on a day, had broken the “alabaster box of precious ointment,” and anointed His Feet therewith, so, too, was Cecilia ready to pour out at His Feet all the treasures of heart, and mind, and soul, which Vittorino’s teaching had helped her to gather; as Magdalene spent the beauty of her hair to wipe the Feet she had anointed, so, too, was Cecilia ready to lay down her beauty for His dear sake.
Not many yards from the Castello of Mantua was a Convent of the Poor Clares, founded by Madonna Paola. Here was the abode which her Beloved had chosen for her, and here He offered her the habit which Francis had bestowed on Clare, the rope-girdle, the coarse veil. Oddantonio’s jewels and gifts, the satins and laces, and cloth of gold in which he would have decked his bride, were dross in the eyes of her, whose chosen ornaments were the jewels of Madonna Poverty.
When she announced her intention of becoming a Clarice to her father, his rage knew no bounds. One blushes to tell it (for Gianfrancesco, with all his faults, has a way of making us like him), but it must be told: he actually used physical violence to the poor girl to compel her to do what she was told. But steadfast as Clare herself, Cecilia stood firm, finding a little comfort in the unfailing sympathy of her mother and her teacher.
For two years the struggle lasted—Vittorino and Paola managing, between them, to dissuade the Marquis from forcing on his daughter’s marriage with a Prince, whose name was beginning to be in all men’s mouths as that of a notorious libertine. It may well be that Gianfrancesco was a little ashamed of himself when he was forced to recognise the true character of his chosen son-in-law. But ashamed or not, he was no more ready to see his brilliant girl bury herself in a Poor Clare’s Cell. To the last, he refused his permission for her entrance into religion; and Cecilia, fearing to bring disaster on the Convent she had chosen, was forced to acquiesce.
But a day came when Gianfrancesco had power to make his will felt no longer—a day when he lay very still and cold on a bier of black velvet, and was borne to his tomb in San Francesco.
Curiously enough, the Church wherein the great Marchese lay buried was part of the Convent Cecilia had been so anxious to make her home. Nothing stood in the way of the accomplishment of her heart’s desire now; and so it came to pass that the Vows he had so long refused to allow his daughter to take were uttered over Marchese Gianfrancesco’s tomb.
