No hint of troubles to come saddened the first few months of Isabella d’Este’s life at Mantua, her chief anxiety having apparently been concerning her beloved sister, whose lot was far less happy than her own. Lodovico Sforza had not been nearly so ardent a lover as Francesco Gonzaga, for he had a mistress, the lovely and learned Cecilia Gallerani, to whom he was devotedly attached, and who had been for many years treated by him as if she were his legal wife. It is significant of the indulgent manner in which such unions were regarded that his relations with her were not considered any bar to his marriage with an innocent young girl, whose parents did all in their power to hasten her engagement with him. It was very evident, however, that Beatrice did not share their eagerness, and it was to Isabella, who had hastened to Ferrara as soon as the matter was settled, that she turned for comfort in her shrinking dread of what was before her. That the Marchesa succeeded in reassuring her and bracing her up for the ordeal is proved by the dignified way in which the child-bride bore herself in the long-drawn-out and brilliant festivities that celebrated her union with a man more than double her own age, and the ease with which she took up the arduous duties of the wife of the leading and most powerful prince of Italy. It was with a heart relieved of its most pressing fears that the elder sister returned home, and the letters written to her by Beatrice in the months succeeding her departure reveal a growing attachment between the newly married couple, on which a seal was set in January 1493 by the birth of their first son.
The court of the Gonzagas now became the rendezvous of the leading authors, artists, and antiquarians of the day, who vied with each other in their enthusiastic admiration for the beautiful young Marchesa, though it is occasionally suggested by contemporary writers that as time went on some of them rather rebelled against her increasing exactions, for she would fain have had every one give up everything to obey her behests. She is even said to have sent imperious messages to such great celebrities as Perugino, Giovanni Bellini, and Leonardo da Vinci, bidding them come and help Mantegna to decorate her apartments, describing the subjects she wished them to interpret, and expressing herself as greatly aggrieved when they failed to appear. On the other hand, there is no doubt that she proved herself a most generous and considerate patron of her own court painter, and the four years after his return from Rome were probably among the happiest of Mantegna’s life. He worked during them almost exclusively at the “Triumph of Cæsar,” receiving no help from any other artist, completing the tenth composition in 1494, and making several sketches for others that were never finished. In these wonderful creations the artist realised the very spirit of antiquity, yet at the same time bequeathed to posterity a marvellously true series of presentments of the contemporary life of his time, full of significant incidents and effective contrasts, the various groups displaying a freedom of execution and force of expression such as Mantegna had never before achieved. For the first time realism and idealism were welded into one, and the past seemed actually to become the present, waking into new life not merely as an intellectual abstraction, but as a visible pageant of humanity.
The year of the successful conclusion of the “Triumph of Cæsar” was a disastrous one for Italy, for in July 1494 the Duke of Orleans, on the invitation of Lodovico Sforza, crossed the Alps, to be followed almost immediately by Charles VIII. The French King and the Duke of Orleans were welcomed with great enthusiasm by Il Moro, whose wife wrote glowing accounts to her sister at Mantua of the rejoicings over their arrival; but those who looked below the surface recognised what a fatal mistake had been made, and sinister rumours soon began to spread abroad as to the real motives of Lodovico Sforza. The death of his nephew Giangaleazzo at a most opportune moment for him led to suspicions of his having caused him to be poisoned, that were confirmed by the way in which he managed to get his claim to the succession recognised and the dead man’s young son Francesco set aside in his own favour. For all that, he was allowed to assume the supreme authority at Milan without opposition, and contemporary chroniclers even comment on the kindness shown by him and his wife to the widowed duchess, to whom apartments were assigned in the palace that had so long been her home. Meanwhile, everything had remained quiet at Mantua, though all that was going on elsewhere was being watched with eager interest by the Gonzagas and Mantegna. Early in 1495 Isabella went to Milan to be with her sister, who was expecting her second child, and on February 4th a fine boy was born. In the brilliant festivities held to celebrate the great event the child’s beautiful aunt is said to have taken a leading part, now receiving ambassadors from foreign courts to save the young mother fatigue, now advising her brother-in-law in some difficult question of etiquette, capping verses with Gaspare Visconti, criticising the work of Giovanni Bellini, or playing with her two-year-old nephew, Ercole, who simply worshipped her.
Suddenly, in the midst of all this light-hearted gaiety, came the news that Charles VIII. had entered Naples and been crowned King of Sicily, and though the bells of Milan were ostentatiously rung as if in rejoicing, a council was hastily summoned to consult on the best measures to save Italy from the French invaders. On April 12th a league against France was signed between Venice, Urbino, Mantua, Milan, King Ferdinand of Spain and the Emperor Maximilian; the Marquis of Mantua was made Generalissimo of the united Italian forces, and after taking an affectionate farewell of Mantegna, who, he said, would soon be called upon to paint a masterpiece in celebration of a victory, he set forth in high spirits at the head of his army. His words turned out to be prophetic, for on July 6th, at Fornovo, he defeated the French with great loss, fighting himself side by side with his soldiers in the front rank. Before he went into action he vowed that if he escaped unhurt he would build a church in honour of the Virgin at Mantua, and as soon as the battle was over he sent instructions to Mantegna to make plans of the building, and to design an altar-piece for it.
(In the Louvre)
This charmingly dramatic interpretation of the subjugation of the God of War by the Goddess of Love is one of a series of allegorical pictures painted for the “Studio” of the Marchesa Isabella Gonzaga at Mantua, and is a unique example of its artist’s deep sympathy with the spirit of classic legend.
The church was finished before the painting, which was not begun until August 30th, but it was completed in time to be placed in position on the anniversary of the event it commemorated, and is universally considered the artist’s finest work of the kind, surpassing even the beautiful S. Zeno triptych. It is now one of the chief treasures of the Louvre, having been taken to France in 1797, and is known as the “Madonna della Vittoria,” although, as a matter of fact, it represents the Marquis of Mantua pleading with the Virgin for the success of his arms, not returning thanks for victory, the whole composition breathing forth yearning aspiration rather than exultation. In it the Holy Child occupies the centre of the design, all the light being concentrated on Him and on the face of His mother, who embraces Him with one hand, and stretches forth the other towards the kneeling suppliant, opposite to whom are St. Elizabeth and the Infant St. John the Baptist. The mantle of the Virgin is held back by Saints George and Michael, and against the ornate background appear the heads of the patrons of Mantua, Saints Andrew and Longinus, the whole being admirably proportioned and well balanced.
During the years that succeeded the victory of Fornovo the Marquis of Mantua and his wife had to contend not only with great political anxieties but with one of the greatest sorrows of their lives—the sudden death of the Duchess of Milan, who passed away on January 2, 1497, after giving birth to a still-born son. Her end is said to have been hastened by the fact that her husband, who had hitherto seemed devoted to her, had recently conceived a passion for a lovely girl named Lucrezia Crivelli, who had been one of her ladies-in-waiting. However that may have been, Lodovico’s grief at her loss, intensified perhaps by self-reproach, was extreme, and the letter he wrote to his brother-in-law asking him to break the terrible news to Isabella is one long cry of anguish. That the young wife had been mercifully taken away from the evil to come soon, however, became apparent, for before she had been dead a year her husband’s doom was already sealed. Heavy clouds, too, were gathering at Mantua, for the Marquis fell under the suspicion of having had underhand dealings with the enemy, and in April 1497 he was suddenly dismissed from his post as Generalissimo of the Italian forces. This was a bitter blow to him, to his wife, and to all, including Mantegna, who had his interests at heart, but fortunately the storm quickly blew over, and he was soon restored to his command, which he retained to the end of the campaign.