The Project Gutenberg eBook, Isabella Orsini, by Francesco Domenico Guerrazzi, Translated by Luigi Monti

Isabella Orsini.

Engraved by F. Halpin from a pencil Drawing by Frasdieri.

Isabella Orsini

RUDD & CARLETON, NEW YORK.

ISABELLA ORSINI:

A Historical Novel of the Fifteenth Century.

BY
F. D. GUERRAZZI,
Author of "Beatrice Cenci."

TRANSLATED FROM THE ITALIAN,
BY
LUIGI MONTI, A.M.,
Instructor in Italian at Harvard University, Cambridge.

NEW YORK:
RUDD & CARLETON, 310 Broadway.
MDCCCLIX.

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1858, by
RUDD & CARLETON,
In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for the Southern
District of New York.

————————————
R. CRAIGHEAD,
Printer, Stereotyper, and Electrotyper,
Caxton Building,
81, 83, and 85 Centre Street.

TO

CORNELIUS C. FELTON, LL.D.,

Eliot Professor of Greek Literature
at Harvard University,

As a mark of gratitude for his kind advice,
urbanity, and friendship,

This Translation is Dedicated.

Contents.

Letter.

Genoa, June 30th, 1858.

My dear Sir,

In reply to your letter dated May 27th, I send you a portrait of Isabella Orsini. You could not have been successful in obtaining it from any one except myself, for notwithstanding the many researches made for it, I procured it only after great difficulty. I went to the very palace wherein she was murdered by the wretched hands of Orsini; I was even on the point of having the coffin wherein she was buried opened, but several reasons deterred me, the principal one being that the body, after so long a time, must have become ashes. At last, while I was in prison, the Marquis * * * died: his heirs (three Marquises) immediately sold books, pictures, furniture, and every family relic. Among these, a friend of mine found a bronze medal of Isabella Orsini, a copy of which I send you. On the reverse of the medal is a bush with flowers, fruits, and the inscription FLORES. SIMUL. ET. FRUCTUS.

A photograph of it did not succeed well. I would willingly send you the medal itself, but fear that it may be lost, and thus the only portrait of that unfortunate woman be for ever destroyed, deters me. I have, however, caused a drawing to be executed by one of our best artists, Chevalier Frascheri, Professor of Painting in the Ligurian Academy, which I think will please you.

Yours very affectionately,

F. D. Guerrazzi.

To Sig. Luigi Monti,
Boston, Mass.

ISABELLA ORSINI.

[CHAPTER I.]
GUILT.

But Jesus stooped down, and with his finger wrote on the ground, as though he heard them not.

So when they continued asking him, he lifted up himself and said unto them: 'He that is without sin among you, let him first cast a stone at her.' * * * *

And Jesus said unto her, Neither do I condemn thee; go and sin no more.

—St. John viii.

"Ave Maria! O being, at whose sight the Eternal One was persuaded to offer himself as an expiatory victim to the irrevocable justice of his laws, for the race of which thou wast born; O Virgin! into whose bosom God penetrated like the purest ray into clear water; O Mother! who in thy bosom, better than in the Holy Ark, barest Divinity, have mercy upon me.

"Ave Maria! Queen of Heaven: God has surrounded thee with the most loving angels that he ever created in the exultation of his glory. God has chosen from the fields of the firmament the most brilliant stars to form thy crown; beneath thy feet has he placed the sun and moon. Christ reposes on thy arm as on a high throne to govern creation. Thou that canst do all things, have mercy upon me.

"Ave Maria! God shed his own blood in observance of the decrees of his law. Thou conquerest even those decrees, for when loving appeals failed, thou didst remove the eternal from thy holy arm, and didst kneel before him, to win by thy prayers what thy request had failed to obtain; for what man or God could see his mother prostrate at his feet and disdainfully spurn her? God is above, not against nature. Mercy then, oh, have mercy upon me!

"Ave Maria! If thou but turnest one look of kindness upon the soul of the parricide, lo, it will become as pure as that of the babe newly baptized. Thou that hast a tear for every sorrow, thou that from misery hast learned to relieve the unfortunate, thou that bringest a balm for every wound, good counsel for every fallen one, help for every fault, protection from every crime, wilt thou be deaf to me alone?

"Does the contemplation of thy heavenly glories dissuade thee from casting down thine eyes upon this vale of tears? Have the praises of the angels caused the groans of thy servants to become wearisome? Mother of thy Creator, hast thou forgotten thy earthly origin? Is it in heaven above, as in this world below!

"Ah, unhappy me! Most miserable! My mind reels and staggers like a drunken man. I am beyond measure inebriated with grief, and my rash words flow from my mouth like the wind of a tempest.

"Holy Mary, pardon! Thou knowest that even when a child, leaving my warm bed to bathe my feet in the dewy grass, I went to gather the flowers that drank the first rays of the morning sun for thee. Thou knowest that I have watched like a vestal, so that the light consecrated to thee on the domestic altar should not be extinguished; and if I committed any act not worthy of thy holy sight, I first veiled thy face, and afterwards implored thy pardon. In thee alone I trust.

"My blood is inflamed, and the very marrow of my bones consumed by a love....

"Who called it love? Did I say love? Ah, in pity let no one know it—let no one hear it—let my ears not listen to the words from my own lips! Madness! Ah, what matter if I have hell in my heart? Yes, an infamous love burns within me; a love to make even the angels weep. O holy Mary, do not look into my soul! All the saints in Paradise, even thou, immaculate Virgin! would'st blush for shame to behold my secret heart.

"And yet this passion burns so secretly, that no one, looking on my pale face, could say: 'Behold an adulteress!' Who among the living can tell whether guilt or grief consumes me? As a sepulchral lamp burns, lighting up human skeletons without diffusing its rays abroad, so my love lives within my soul, shining upon the miserable relics of my contaminated virtue.

"But in this fierce battle every vital spark has failed. Already the hour approaches when the abyss will open, within which will fall the woman's shame, the husband's honor, family pride, the mother's love,—all in short, and the soul's safety with them!

"The soul's safety! Everlasting perdition! And should I, hopeless of overcoming the current, allow myself to be subdued by the waters? Should I, with a soul borne down by grief, dare to fly from the sad prison of the body? Should I, unsummoned, give wings to my life, and take shelter under the cloak of God's pardon? Will the arms of God open to receive or to repulse me? And am I not indeed wholly wicked? O God, dost thou not penetrate into our hearts, and see how sin has corroded them? In this bitter contest I defend that part of me which will turn to dust; the other, which has immortal life, is forever lost. Whether I remain or fly, whether I give up or resist, Isabella, thou art lost—lost forever!

"Where or who is he that has decreed this most wicked law? If I cannot break, I can at least rail at this iron decree. Have I not struggled, and struggled incessantly? Where is my guilt, if I cannot overcome? In what have I sinned, if a serpent while I slept has crept into my heart, has made there its nest, and has there revealed itself more fearful than the Medusa's head? How have I sinned, if my strength is insufficient to bear this cross? The fallen should not be laughed at nor condemned, but aided. Well, since the guilt contemplated is equal to the guilt consummated, and both incur the same punishment, let me descend wholly into the abyss of crime and die."

These and other words were partly spoken, partly murmured by a young and handsome woman, before a painting of the Madonna, the divine work of Fra Angelico. And this face, symbol of celestial modesty and chaste thoughts, seemed as if frightened at such prayers, for, less even by the words than by the manner in which they were spoken, they seemed almost impious. The woman was not in a reverential posture, but standing erect, with haughty aspect, her eyes sparkling, her breast heaving, her lips trembling, her nostrils dilated, her hands clenched, her feet restless—in short, a lioness rather than a woman, much less a suppliant woman.

Was she right?

The Greeks, investigating diligently the nature of our hearts, discovered vice to be so inherent in human beings, that neither strength united with will, nor laws, nor customs, nor religion itself, could overcome it; but with that wonderful talent which the heavens granted to them alone, they rendered vice amiable, and made it contribute to the good of the republic. Instead of awaiting what they could not prevent, they went to meet it, like Mithridates, who, having to drink poison, took away its power of doing him harm, by habituating himself to its use. They dared even more; they made the gods the accomplices of the errors of men; powerless to raise their dust to heaven, they brought heaven down to the dust, and the guilty became objects, not of hate but of compassion, for they had yielded to the omnipotent power of fate, to which even Jupiter was subject—fate which guides the willing and drags the reluctant.

This idea, extended to every action, they applied especially to the affairs of love. Anacreon, whose hair, so often crowned with leaves of the merry ivy and vine, was becoming grey, was seated one gloomy winter's night alone before the fire. Boreas raged over land and sea, and a hurricane of hailstones rattled upon the poet's house. He remembers no more the rays which the sun of spring sheds upon the flowers and the tresses of lovely women; nor the soft grass scarcely pressed by the flying feet of the dancers, nor the breezes pregnant with life, that seem to murmur in his ears, "love—love;" his thoughts turn upon the transitory nature of our lives here below; he sees life rolling on more swiftly than the wheels of the conqueror's car in the Olympic games, our days dissolving more speedily than the shadow on the wall; the roses of his fancy withered at the thought of death. Suddenly a knock is heard at the poet's door, accompanied by a tearful voice. How can the poet help feeling pity, since pity is one of the most harmonious chords of his heavenly lyre? Anacreon opens the door, and a child appears, wet with the rain and pale with sorrow: poor child! his fine hair hangs dripping round his cheeks, his lips are livid, his limbs stiffened with cold. "What evil fortune, my pretty child, forces thee to wander on such a night, sacred to the infernal deities?" And without awaiting a reply, he presses the ice from his hair, removes his dress, dries him, and revives him by the heat of the fire; nor is that enough, he puts the child's hands into his own breast to warm them gently with the mild heat of his own blood. When the color returns to his lip, and the tremulous light to his eyes, the child smilingly says: "Now let me see if the rain has spoiled my bow;" and fitting an arrow, he draws the string. Anacreon is suddenly wounded, before he can perceive that Love, mocking, has left his house. It was the vengeance of Apollo which caused Myrrha to burn with unholy passion for Cinyras; of Venus, which caused the love of Pasiphaë for the bull; of Phædra for Hippolytus; and the will of Juno and Minerva which caused the cruel affection of Medea for Jason. Few or no crimes were committed which were not attributed to the influence of some god; and in this way, tragedians, availing themselves of the universal faith in fate, represented upon the stage the horrible deeds that under different aspects would not have been tolerated. And there certainly lives, or rather there sometimes seems to live in us, something more powerful than ourselves; nor does our belief, generally so different from the doctrine of the ancients, entirely oppose it. Do we not believe that our first mother was tempted by the serpent? And since that time, the ears of women have been readily open to the flatteries of the tempter. Perhaps the tempter does not stand without, but within the woman, and dwells in her pure blood, in the fine texture of her veins, in the pores of her delicate skin, in her imaginative brain, and in her more imaginative heart: and when thus, the tempter appears strongest and most inevitable. But do women alone yield to the persuasions of a devil, that comes tempting them, now with hate, now with pleasure, now with love, now with the abundance of wealth, and (for we will not stop to enumerate them all) with as many passions as are powerful to stir the human heart? Alas! with few is there fortitude enough to withstand pleasure and gold, the most cruel of all the tyrants of our souls. Renowned heroes of ancient and modern history, men august and venerated, while life lasted, either resisted such passions, or too often yielded to them; and if repentance was raised to the dignity of a sacrament among us, it seems the most evident proof that God himself never expected that we should keep ourselves innocent; no, he did not expect it, since he commanded Simon Peter to forgive, not only seven times, but even seventy times seven.—Poor Isabella! Let him who is without sin first cast a stone at her....

Was she wrong?

The first draught never intoxicates, and whoever wishes, can put down the cup and say, "Enough!" For that Love, hardly born, shaking his head and his great bow, enthrones himself king of the spirit, and cries, "I will it, and I wish to reign alone,"—so sing the fanciful poets,—but this is not the truth. Love every moment makes his wings of sweet thoughts and ardent desires, and his darts grow harder, as the heart at which he aims becomes softened. Delia did not become blind merely by once looking at the sun; and whosoever wishes to escape the Sirens must imitate the example of Ulysses, and stop his ears with wax. We trust too much or too little to ourselves. When the flame of a glance, or the allurement of a voice fascinates us, and Providence with an innate conscience admonishes us, we take no heed of the warning, but say: "Not even this love shall trespass; when it would go beyond bounds, we shall be sufficient for the defence." When afterwards we feel it conquering, we defer the remedy from day to day; at last, overcome, we accuse the destiny which we have woven with our own hands. Thus, having the power, the will fails, and having the will, the power fails. We are caught in our own nets. Among the laws of fate, man can be subjected to those that are outside; the others that are within him have no power; the body can be subdued, not the soul. And if God gives us a mind able to use its power even against His immortal throne, why or how can we accuse Him, if, like cowards, we throw down the shield at the beginning of the battle, or if we refuse to use the sword which He has put into our hands? Querulous and unjust atoms, we wish the Creator to break through the eternal order of things, and to bend down every moment from the heavens to repair our faults, and to quiet the tempest of the heart which we have excited. He, the Creator, who whirls through infinite space the fragments of shattered orbs, and wakes in its dreadful sublimity the tempest of the ocean! Even guilt knows a kind of dignity; let us dare to possess it. Lucifer, exiled from celestial thrones, accused no one, nor did he reproach himself with his want of success; and Lucifer, in his dark grandeur, appears such, that although we cannot wish him a better destiny, yet we cannot abstain from cursing the ill-omened moment in which he drew down upon his head the wrath of God. But we are far inferior either in good or evil to angelic natures. In order to persuade ourselves that we are worth something, we presume to do ourselves the honor of believing that Satan has tempted us. If Satan could turn upon us his fiery glances, he would not tempt, but laugh at us. Can there be a worse tempter than our own evil inclinations, and the full power of our will in nursing and fostering them? I certainly do not wish to take away or to diminish the compassion of men, or the mercy of God for the poor soul of Isabella, but only to prove that the miserable death to which she was brought was the just recompense of her merits, or rather her demerits.

While Isabella was uttering the strange prayer which is partly given above, a knight of haughty aspect and bold presence advanced from the other end of the hall, and stood listening to her words; then softly approaching, said, "Isabella!"

The woman started at this sudden voice, her face grew paler, her lips moved without making a sound, her heavy eyelids fell, whilst the swelling of the veins produced a dark shade around her eyes. She would have fallen had not the knight hastened to support her. After a short silence he spoke:

"Isabella, you have something on your heart which you desire to conceal from me. Why is this, Isabella? Am I then so poor a friend that you do not deem me worthy to share your innocent secrets? Or do you believe me so eager for my own happiness, that I know not how to prefer, although with intense anguish, your peace and wishes to my own? Speak: I am ready to do anything for your love—give me but a word. Ah, miserable me! What need is there, Isabella, for you to speak? I have heard too much. Do you not believe in my courage? Let me prove it to you. You pray for my death, and I can, yes, I will unite my petition to yours; I will recall to my lips the sweetest prayer that my mother ever taught me. Isabella, kneel; I, you see, am kneeling."

And she, hardly knowing what she did, knelt; and both prayed.

These were no pure and peaceful prayers, such as ascend to Heaven like incense from innocent hearts, which the angels love to bear on their shining wings to the throne of the Eternal, received by God as celestial guests, and consoled, as if they were the troubled sons of His love. These prayers mounted from panting bosoms, disconnected and hurried, like delirious thrills of pleasure; they were wafted through the air, thick, like clouds arising from dark earthly sources; nor did they reach the threshold of Heaven, but fell repulsed, like the smoke from the offering of the first murderer, to increase the passion of the guilty ones.

It was right; for these prayers did not come sincerely from the heart, for he who offered them feared lest they might be heard, and scarcely were they spoken, ere he would have wished to revoke them. Oh, mortal mind, how unstable in the desire of good! Then the glowing cheeks touched, the convulsed hands sought and clasped each other, and the prayers ended in oaths to love each other for ever, in spite of sacred bonds, of family honor, of death, or hell. Indeed, so regardless of them were they, that they called as a witness to the wicked vow, our divine Mother, to whom they had intended to pray for safety; and the Mother of Mercy did not turn aside her face, convinced that if their prayers were then false, in the day of repentance she must listen, when they would be only too sincere.

Meanwhile justice registered the guilt in that book, where nothing is cancelled, except by blood.

[CHAPTER II.]
LOVE.

E bevea da' suoi lumi

Un' estranea dolcezza,

Che lasciava nel fine

Un non so che di amaro.

Sospirava sovente, e non sapeva

La cagion dei sospiri.

Così fui prima amante, che intendessi

Che cosa fosse amore:

Ben me ne accorsi alfin....

Tasso

And from his eyes I drank

A sweetness strange and new,

But in the end, alas! I found

That draught was bitter too.

I sighed, and knew not why;—

I loved, and knew it not:—

But ah! too soon that knowledge came

By sad experience brought....

Sir Anton Francesco Torelli was of one of the best families of the territory of Fermo;—endowed with the gifts of fortune, honored by his relations, respected by strangers, blessed with a lovely wife, and a son, in whom centred all the hopes of his declining years.

Happy would he have been if he had believed what is only too true, that the best instruction that children can receive, must be derived from the good examples of their parents: happy, if he had never sent from his home, his dear son Lelio! for his last steps towards the tomb would not have been embittered by sorrow. But, complying with the fashion of the times, he desired his son to be skilled in chivalric exercises, and the father's heart exulted in the hope that the noble ladies of Fermo might salute his son as the most accomplished and courteous nobleman of the land. With this idea, Sir Anton Francesco, having himself served a long time with the Cardinal dei Medici in Rome, thought he might easily instal his son Lelio as page in the court of the Grand Duke Cosimo. But Cosimo having died prematurely, worn out by the excessive love of pleasure, Lelio, a youth of elegant manners and fine figure, so pleased the Lady Isabella, Duchess of Bracciano, and daughter of Cosimo, that she obtained the handsome page for her own service.

In those times, noblemen serving at court, were required to learn the skilful management of all knightly weapons, to fight with the sword and dagger, and even to defend themselves unarmed from unexpected attacks with the stiletto or poniard; and there were some excellent books written about this art, which served also as a model to other nations. Nor did they neglect the practice of fire-arms, although that was not esteemed so noble an accomplishment; the management of horses they deemed indispensable, either in racing, tilting, or (more difficult still) curvetting before the ladies, then nice judges of such arts. Next in importance came dexterity in field-sports, among which stood foremost that of hawking, now fallen into disuse, or only kept up in Holland. To tell the truth, the knights made a show of admiring belles-lettres, but not the severer productions of the pen, nor those which spring new and vivid from the imagination warmed by the heart, but rather those arranged according to accepted formulas, and mutilated in usum Delphini; which composed the delights of the courtiers whom experience or fear had taught to touch carefully such dangerous matters. Justice, however, forbids us to let pass unnoticed some writer, who, kindled by the last panting breath of the Republic, dared to write, if not powerfully, at least conscientiously; but the last breath soon expires, the writer became silent, and bowed his head to fate. There were others, who wrote the truth, but dared not publish it, as if they had wished to constitute their remote descendants the heirs of their revenge; and, as it seems, the descendants opened the will, but reading what the inheritance was, thought best to refuse the legacy. The arts and sciences, however, were better received, particularly chemistry, for the purpose of making poisons, of which the men of those times, and the Medicis in particular, became very skilful manufacturers, and by what we read about it, we see that modern researches fall far short of ancient toxicology. Michael Angelo, immortal monument of human dignity, and eternal witness to the truth, that man was created in the image of God, when he no longer had a country, consecrated himself entirely to Heaven, and was replaced by Benvenuto Cellini, a man of great genius, but wholly without heart, who wasted his talents in working girdles, jewels, vases, plates, and similar superfluities of luxury; so that when he undertook the statue of Perseus, he was no longer able to raise to lofty conceptions his mind so long accustomed to female ornaments, whereupon Alfonzo dei Pazzi stung him with the bitter epigram:—

"With the trunk of a giant, the limbs of a lady,

I rate your fair Perseus at one maravedi."[1]

But to return to Lelio Torelli; he had succeeded wonderfully in all the exercises that require strength and suppleness of limb. As to that discipline which is requisite to enlighten the intellect, either he had not given his mind to it, or had not been able to attain it; nor did he take pleasure in music, singing, or dancing; his glances rested upon a group of pretty women with less interest than upon a bunch of roses, and infinitely less than that with which he hunted the wild boar over hill and dale. No one more ready than he to leap with one bound into the saddle; no one more unerring in hurling a dart or firing a shot; and not to describe too minutely, he not only easily surpassed in prowess all his companions, but scarcely could there be found among the elder knights one to excel him.

Therefore he was more eager for affrays and disputes than was becoming in a noble youth, thus exhibiting a fierceness of disposition; and whenever by superior force or adroitness he overcame his opponent, deaf to the gentle tones of pity or pardon, he was not easily restrained from striking, until weariness or the interposition of bystanders arrested his hand. Then rancor took possession of him; and woe if he should one day have a chance to give vent to the vengeance treasured up in the depths of his soul! His enemies would certainly have done well to put, as the saying goes, the extreme unction in their pockets. As to the rest of his character, he was as strong in love as in hate, and always foremost in exposing himself to danger, even desiring to meet it alone, so that his friends had to restrain him. This he did neither to win praise nor to excite gratitude, for he despised and even spurned both, but through a natural generosity and even a certain feeling of superiority over his companions, and this superiority it was easier for them to envy than to counteract. Feared rather than loved, respected rather than followed, he seemed most worthy of authority.

It one day happened that Lady Isabella having summoned him in great haste, he had scarcely time to free himself from the hands of his antagonist, and appeared before her stained with blood. The noble lady seeing him in this condition, exclaimed in an angry voice:

"Go from my sight, you make me shudder!"

From that day, Lelio seemed no longer the same; instead of wreaking vengeance on any one who taunted him, as he would once have done, he now bit his lips, colored to the very roots of his hair, checked himself by violent effort, and met the sarcasm with a pleasant smile. He was more orderly in his person than before, and paid more attention to his luxuriant fair hair, and the neatness of his dress; but his once florid complexion had now become pale, his air pensive, his blue eyes sunken. And this was not all. Lelio would often stand apart from his companions, sad and silent, looking either at a flower, a falcon circling through the air, or a little cloud that undulated through the blue ether as if the loving zephyrs were contending for it; but he was oftenest to be seen in the evening, upon the brow of a hill, with both hands clasped upon his knees, gazing intently at the setting sun, and the gold, purple, and rich colors of mother-of-pearl, and the rainbow hues with which the glorious Father of Life surrounds his temporary tomb. He scarcely heeded his Spanish jennet, which strove in vain to rouse his inert master with his neighs; vainly, too, did his greyhound run before him, crouch for an instant, turn back to him, fly on again, bark, gaze, lick his hands and leap upon him; Lelio by voice and signs would gently endeavor to quiet him, so that the poor animal, seeing all his attempts useless, with drooping ears and tail would quietly crouch at his master's feet; nor did his weapons meet with any better fate, although sometimes he would seize them as if moved by a sudden impulse, and would exercise so violently with them as to bathe himself in perspiration, and exhaust his strength for several days.

Lady Isabella possessed a little volume of Petrarch's poems which always accompanied her in her solitary walks; this book disappeared, for Lelio had appropriated it to himself and was never tired of reading in it.

How had the youth become so changed? One day while absorbed in this book, and straying at random through the woody paths of Cerreto, some laughing country girls waited for him at the extremity of one of the walks, hidden behind some oaks, and threw handfuls of violets in his face, saying in jesting tones; "Such eyes were not made to be dimmed by poring over books, but to laugh and make love." And a gay old farmer, who passed by carrying upon his head a basket of grapes, laughing still louder, cried: "Ah, indeed! you do not know much about it; do you not see how dead in love he is? The end of the world must be coming, if our young girls do not know what love is."

And when, on calm evenings, the windows of the hall being open, the Lady Isabella poured forth a flood of harmony through the dark air, singing and playing songs and melodies, perhaps already composed, or, abandoning herself to the inspiration that moved her, improvising the verses and setting them to music; Lelio would stand motionless, leaning against a tree or the pedestal of a statue in the garden, inhaling a fatal enchantment, rendered more intoxicating by the atmosphere, the hour, the odorous emanations which the dewy herbs and flowers sent forth, and the sweet light which fell from the starry heavens; and when the windows were closed, the lamps lighted, and all animate creation resigned itself to that repose to which nature invites it, this solitary youth was still so absorbed in ecstasy, that he alone remained forgetful of everything, standing in the same place, until the first rays of the rising sun shining in his eyes recalled him to the accustomed duties of life.

Before continuing the recital of this love, I must explain what I have alluded to above. I wish to have it understood that I have made use of no poet's license, but that it is an historical fact, that Isabella, Duchess of Bracciano, was not only an authoress, a poetess, and a composer, but also an improvisatrice. Nor was this the only talent of this celebrated woman, for besides her native tongue, she spoke and wrote fluently in Latin, French, and Spanish; in the art of drawing she rivalled the most celebrated masters, and in every accomplishment that belonged to her high station, and in every lady-like elegance and refinement, she was so perfect as to be rightly esteemed rather wonderful than rare. All the chronicles which I have seen, which speak of this unfortunate Princess, agree in using the following words: "It is sufficient to say that she was esteemed by all, both far and near, as a perfect ark of learning and science, and the people loved her for those great qualities, and her father felt for her a most passionate tenderness." Blessed might she have been, could she have used such rich gifts of nature and high cultivation to render her life happy and her memory immortal!

Lelio, whenever it was possible, would enter the room of the Lady Isabella, and there, sure that he was unobserved, would take the instrument over which the fingers of his mistress had swiftly flown, and would kiss it madly, press it to his heart and brow, and bathe it with tears; and if he could find some paper upon which the Lady Isabella had been writing, he would read the lines over and over again, and try to compose some himself; but although his soul overflowed with poetry, the power adequately to express such overwhelming emotion was wanting; nor, perhaps, could even long study have enabled him to do justice to it. He would then be enraged with himself, rave, and finally end by blotting out with his tears what he had written with the ink. At last even this comfort, if we may call it one, was denied him. The Lady Isabella finding her spotless papers soiled, and being unable to discover the culprit, from that time forward carefully removed them.

But in truth, except for this waste of paper, Lady Isabella could not wish for a more assiduous and diligent page than Lelio. By the expression of her face, so much had he gazed upon it, he had learned to read the inmost secrets of her soul, nor did he need any further indication of her wishes to execute them. This assiduity increased to such a degree as to be somewhat troublesome, especially when Lady Isabella was conversing with Sir Troilo—for then he would invent a thousand excuses to enter unsummoned into her room, or not to leave it when there. As it rarely happens that two beings who hate, or wish to injure each other, however much they may endeavor to conceal their feelings, do not by some means or other finally reveal them, so the glances of Troilo and Lelio met, clashing like two enemies' swords, and the more Troilo persisted in looking sternly at Lelio, to make him, either through respect or fear, cast down his eyes, the more steadily would Lelio fix them upon him with an indescribable expression of rage. The few words which they exchanged always contained some biting sarcasm; bitter were the tones of their voices; bitter their actions, their bearing, their gestures.

Lelio, one day stealing, according to his custom, into Lady Isabella's room, took her lute in his hand, and making a pretence of playing it, began to sing a ballad that was a favorite of his mistress. He did not attempt to pour forth the full power of his clear voice, withheld by respect for the place, and because, ignorant of music, he had learned the song by ear only, repeating it who knows how many times; but growing excited by degrees, he yielded to the impulse that prompted him, and rarely or never had those halls resounded with the echoes of so rich a melody. Lady Isabella drew near unobserved, and touched by so much harmony, approached him gently, and when Lelio ceased singing, she placed her hand upon his head, and patting it playfully, said—

"Who taught you this, my fine boy?"

"Love—a very great love that I have for music."

"And you should follow the dictates of this love, since the cultivation of the fine arts ennobles the intellect and softens the heart."

And as the Duchess still kept her hand upon his head, Lelio, in an imploring voice, said to her—

"My Lady, for heaven's sake I beseech you to take your hand from my head."

"Should I not put it there?" asked the Duchess in tones slightly resentful, and withdrawing it quickly.

"Oh! my Lady, pity me, it burns my brain."

"I do not see why my hand should perform the office of the tunic of Nessus."

"I do not know, but I feel it." And the boy uttered these words in so tremulous and mournful a voice, that the Duchess put her hand to his forehead and exclaimed in a frightened tone—

"Dio mio! how it burns! Poor Lelio! I fear you are ill. Ah! you are fainting, and there is no one here to help him. Lelio! Lelio! Ah! he will die in my arms. Holy Virgin, help him!"

Lelio, his face as white as a waxen image, bathed in a cold perspiration, closed his eyes and leaned his head upon Lady Isabella's bosom, while she supported him with both arms. Recovering himself presently, he opened his eyes with a sigh, perceived where he was, and remembering how it had happened, and the reason of his fainting, he said sadly,

"I thought that I was dying. Oh, why did I not really die?"

The Duchess took some scented spirits and bathed his temples with it, although the youth tried respectfully to prevent her.

"Let me, let me," said the Duchess. "I will be a mother to you. I might already be so in age—almost—and in affection. You have a claim upon my tenderness, for your own mother is far distant, and cannot help you, poor child. But what follies are these? Whence comes this despair? Speak to me; open your whole heart to me. I have seen you change countenance, have seen your inward struggles; and I have observed how your arm trembles when you assist me to mount my horse. Are you in love? Thoughtless boy, you should not hide it from me! For I too have known love's trials, and know also how to pity them. You, so noble, cannot have placed your affections on an unworthy object; and if upon one above you, there is no inequality which love cannot level; and you, by your high birth, your wealth, and more than all by your goodness, are deserving of an illustrious connexion. If I have any influence, I promise to exert it all to see you happy."

Meanwhile Lelio had regained his former composure; he even, all sorrow laid aside, appeared smiling, and his cheeks were rosy with the hue of youth, the springtime of life.

"Oh, indeed," he replied with feigned bashfulness, "do children know anything about such things? Are such the thoughts of eighteen years? What is love? Is it a fruit, a sword, or a falcon? I have always heard it said that youths grow thin, but that afterwards they become more vigorous than before. My lady, I feel so happy, so joyful, that I can ask for nothing more; and offering you passionately all the gratitude in my power for your pity, I entreat you to continue the maternal kindness which you have promised me, giving you my word of honor, that I, for my part, will ever strive to deserve it."

"I will do so, Lelio," said the Lady Isabella, adding, almost in spite of herself, "for I need, more than you can believe, people to love me truly. I, you see, Lelio, am miserable, miserable enough, for no one on this earth loves me. My father loved me dearly, but he has left me. O my father, why did you leave me alone—without a guide—abandoned by all?" While she was thus speaking, Lelio knelt on the ground, and kissing the hem of her dress, uttered these words:

"I make a sacred vow to be yours till death."

The Duchess, who through necessity and custom had learned to control her emotions, perceiving that she had gone further than she had intended, said, in order to distract her own thoughts and Lelio's from these events.

"Rise, Lelio, I do not wish the gift of voice which I have discovered in you to be lost: I do not want you to sing by ear, and am ready to teach you music. If you continue to improve as rapidly as you have begun, it will not be long before you will have no equal in the court of my illustrious brother Francesco. Let us take the music of the song that you were singing just now; I will show you the notes, and the places where the voice must be elevated and lowered. Signor Giulio Caccini, a Roman musician, composed it expressly for me. The melody is soft and sweet."

"If I had known before, honored lady, whose composition it was, I should have taken care not to learn it by heart, much less to sing it."

"Why so, Lelio? Have you unfriendly feelings towards Signor Giulio?"

"I have never exchanged a word with him; but his face has such a bad expression; he looks to me as if he had the whole sect of the Pharisees in his heart."

"It seems just the contrary to me. He is gracious and kind to all, speaks gently, and smiles sweetly. I could confess——"

"And I regard him as the most consummate traitor that has ever been since Judas. Mark but his smile; it does not seem to be his own; I believe he begged it from some second-hand dealer. In his small velvety hands, do you not see the cat's paw in which the claws are sheathed? He preaches charity and neighborly love to all, it is true, but he does it for his own sake; for he does not find it for his interest to encourage people to scrutinize too closely, and to discover by rigid examination the characters of others."

Lady Isabella said, smilingly, "Beware, Lelio; judge not, that you be not judged."

"Those are holy words, that must be understood literally, since otherwise it would be necessary to renounce both experience and life. And, therefore, I may judge, since I do not fear to be judged."

Lelio was right, and a deed of blood is proof of it.

The chronicles relate that Captain degli Antinori having to carry to Eleonora di Toledo, wife of Piero dei Medici, a love-letter from the knight Antonio, his brother, then imprisoned on account of that very love at Porto Ferrai, took advantage of the opportunity of Don Piero's going out with his retinue, entered quickly the Palazzo Vecchio, went up to the apartments of the Lady Eleonora, who then occupied the frescoed rooms that look out upon the Piazza del Grano, and immediately asked an audience of the porter; but he had absolute orders not to let a single person pass, for his lady was dressing. In vain did the Captain insist that his business was most urgent—that those orders were not to be regarded—that he should let him pass, or at least apprise the lady of his presence. The porter, born and educated at Innspruck, would not listen to his arguments; his lady had given orders that for an hour he should give ingress to no one, and until the sixty minutes were expired, no one should pass. There was no remedy; the Captain began to walk up and down the antechamber in a passion, but soon becoming weary of oscillating backwards and forwards like the pendulum of a clock, he saw that the amiable Caccini was also waiting for an audience. Exchanging a few words of courtesy with him, and finding him apparently all kindness, particularly towards the Lady Eleonora, whom, with an air of tenderness, and with eyes full of tears, he called his adored and virtuous patron, he incautiously intrusted him with the letter, begging him, for the love of Heaven, to take care and let no one see it, and to give it with his own hands to the Lady Eleonora. Scarcely had the Captain turned his back, when the musician concealed himself in the embrasure of a window, and treacherously opening the letter, learned from it the truth of what was generally suspected—that is to say, the intrigue of the knight with the Princess; wherefore, in the hope of a great reward, he went directly to the Grand Duke, and first, humbly craving pardon for having opened the letter, excusing himself by affirming that he had done so out of the great love he bore to the dignity of his gracious and noble lord and master, he placed it in his hands. The Grand Duke changed countenance while reading it, but having finished, with apparent tranquillity, he refolded it leisurely, and putting it into his bosom, said, in a serious voice, as was his custom—for rumor says he spoke briefly:

"Musician, I see here four guilty persons—the knight Antinori, who wrote this letter, Captain Antinori, who brought it, Eleonora, who was to receive it, and you, who opened it; go—each one shall be rewarded according to his deserts."

Isabella, a woman of singular excellence of disposition, rendered, by the unfortunate circumstances of her life, unhappy, but not suspicious, added quickly:

"Any one who loves me, must dismiss such wrong and unreasonable prejudices; in my opinion they are unworthy and unjust, and generally give evidence of an ill-natured disposition. All have the right of being judged according to their works. Be careful, my dear Lelio, always to have a clear conscience, and life will seem less burdensome to you than to the other children of Adam. Come, now, and learn the song of this brave Roman. How can you believe that a man capable of composing so sweet a melody, could have a bad heart?"

Thus does man judge!

The Duchess, taking the sheet of music in her hand, commanded Lelio, who obeyed not unwillingly, to sit by her side, and began to teach him where the voice should rest, and how and where it should glide at length, or quaver in melodious trills; in short, all the tastes of an accomplished musician. But Lelio paid more attention to the white hands than to the notes, and still more to the lovely face that grew animated over the music; wrapt in a kind of ecstasy, he not only ceased accompanying Lady Isabella, but could hardly draw his breath. Lady Isabella said:—"But keep on." And he, uttering with difficulty a faint note, was silent the next moment. The Lady Isabella, again, "Why do you stop?" And thus alternated reproofs and silence. Lelio, prompted by love, drew nearer to the Duchess; hence, it so chanced that some of her raven ringlets, stirred by the motion of her head, touched his cheek; the boy trembled in every limb, his eyes, suffused with tears, shone with a wild light, his dry lips burned; it seemed joy, but it was really pain. The cheek touched by the hair became red, as if burning metal had been applied to it, and the page could scarcely bear the keen and tremulous passion that agitated him; but recovering himself, he would again return to the trial, as we see the moth, led by fatal instinct, flutter round the flame that consumes him. Thus, not heeding the minutes that sped, the personages of our history remained a long time, until the Duchess, casually raising her eyes, saw standing before her Sir Troilo Orsini.

Troilo of the pallid brow! His eyes sparkled beneath his black and bushy eyebrows like the jackal's, eager for prey. He held his right hand within his black velvet mantle; his left hand, on his side, was holding his hat ornamented with black plumes; and so motionless was he, that one might have believed him a statue. Isabella encountered his malignant gaze without the slightest embarrassment, and paying no attention to it, said frankly:

"Welcome, Sir Troilo, and share my happiness, for I have discovered a new virtue in my page; he sings like an angel, and I intend to cultivate his voice till he is perfect; then, when he returns home, it will please his mother, and he will be the favorite of the ladies of Fermo."

Sir Troilo replied:

"You would repeat the injustice of Americus Vespucius, since I discovered before you did, that this youth, with proper instruction, might become a wonderful musician."

Lelio felt the keen satire, and his face burned, but he was silent.

"Your Ladyship," continued Sir Troilo, "I must now speak to you of something more important; please to listen to me.—Page, take these, and put them in my room, and be careful not to come back again until you are called."

"Save your honor, Sir Troilo, I am here in the service of her Ladyship the Duchess; and unless she be pleased to command otherwise, I beg of you to take it in courtesy, if I do not go."

This time it was Troilo who colored; and already some cutting reply quivered on his lip, when the Lady Isabella hastily interposed, saying:

"Lelio, obey Sir Troilo."

Lelio took the sword, gloves, and hat, and bowing low, walked slowly towards the door.

"Page!" cried Orsini after him, "carry my sword with both hands; it is heavy, and you may drop it."

Lelio drew the gleaming sword like lightning from its scabbard, and brandishing it swiftly around his head, replied with a bold voice, and without stopping:

"Never fear, Sir Troilo, for my heart and hand are strong enough to wield it as a gentleman against any honorable knight. You understand; against any knight."

If he added any other words, they were not heard, as he was so distant.

"See," said Sir Troilo, spitefully, closing the door of the hall, "see how your indiscreet mildness raises around you a troop of insolent fellows."

"I have not observed any insolent ones, although I have an ungrateful one, Sir Troilo."

And, seated side by side, they began to converse in low, but excited tones, and, to judge by their gestures and manner, it could be neither pleasure, kindness, nor any other tender feeling, that influenced this conversation, but reproofs, suspicions, and fears; the Omnipotent having ordained, in His eternal decrees, that man, for his sins, should never be perfectly happy.

Now my readers, especially my lady readers, must understand that three full years had elapsed since the day that Isabella and Troilo had sworn the eternity of an affection that never should have commenced; and three years is a long eternity in love affairs. Eternity! Fancy a word so unsuitable to the lips of man, still less to those of woman. Love engagements usually begin on two sides and end on one. It is the best plan, though one but rarely put into execution, to annul them at a fixed time by mutual consent. Contracts of love have not the same advantages as those of business. In the latter, before making such a contract, the person interested wishes to understand the exchanges, the purchases, the location, and the like, and the advantages accruing to him in the value, the expenses, and the accessories, like one accustomed to be mindful of his own interests in such affairs; but in the former he bargains and binds himself blindfold, awaiting the consummation before he reckons and judges how much he has gained by it. And this sad day of reckoning had come and passed for Isabella and Troilo, and by this time who knows how often they had summed it up! The truth of this history obliges us to confess that the lady had found herself at a great disadvantage, which fact contributed in no small degree to alienate the lovers. Indeed Isabella possessed an ardent love for true art, and for the pleasures of science; an apt and happy talent, and a very great enthusiasm; great kindness of disposition, sympathetic feelings, noble manners, lady-like elegance, and a courtesy truly regal. The sentiment of love remains. I cannot say that the power of loving was wanting in her, for it would not be true; but she was deceived, believing that that was an unconquerable necessity of the heart, which was merely an impulse of the imagination; and as there is nothing more ethereal than the fancy, or more ready to evaporate, she often not only wondered, but was terrified, to find herself cold towards persons and things for whom and which she had shortly before felt an ardent fondness. Happy would it have been for her if nature or art had balanced more equally her heart and her brain. Grave masters and solemn teachings had not been wanting; but if, when obliged to choose between severe precepts and easy ones, between strict teachings and mild ones, the second seem the pleasanter to follow, it need not be asked why they obtain the preference. In her father's house she was surrounded by the worst examples, and alas! miserable girl! they punished in her, the most innocent of them all, the crimes or consequences of crimes, of which her brothers should more justly have borne the penalties. Indeed, the various chronicles that I have examined concur in the same judgment, expressed in the following manner by one of them:—"Every one said that a remedy should have been adopted before Prince Francesco and her other brothers had made use of her to draw to their wishes other ladies of the city, carrying her out with them every night dressed as a man, and then pretending that she should remain a saint." Isabella, moreover, possessed, or better to express it, was possessed by what is called a poetic temperament—a warm heart in the power of an ardent imagination—like a bold knight on an unbridled horse, a situation replete with the saddest consequences.

And how did Troilo appear on the day of reckoning? Troilo of the pallid brow, the heavy eyebrow, and the falcon eye. If we consider his figure, few were the knights in Italy who could sustain any comparison with him. He was well formed in person, and of so handsome a face that artists of note had begged him to sit to them as a model, and he had consequently grown very vain. His hair was short and his face smooth, with the exception of a dark imperial and moustache. Having heard that Alexander the Great leaned his head upon his right shoulder, Troilo, not to be inferior to him, imitated the habit. He always dressed in black velvet; was usually sad and pensive, speaking rarely, not because he imagined himself a poor conversationalist, for he ranked himself on the contrary far above Cicero, but it was natural to him. When he said but little, people were persuaded that he was a man of remarkable talents and a keen observer of human affairs; but if he conversed at greater length the vanity of his mind was clearly manifested, as our ancestors aver the solidity of the vase to be proved by sounding it. How the Fates had placed such a head on such a body is a question not easily answered. It is very certain that he would have driven to despair those who undertake to discover by external signs the passions and imaginations of the soul. He surpassed all the noblemen of that age in prowess and courage. In the bloody quarrels of the barons, for which the streets of Rome were then notorious, he was always the first to commence and the last to retreat. Naturally strong, he fought with strength, although treason was the height of his ambition; and his favorite hero, the famous Alphonso Piccolomini, a celebrated highwayman whom Ferdinand dei Medici, as Cardinal, once saved from the gallows, but afterwards, as Grand Duke, hung. But in the battles where skill rather than strength is requisite, or where the one should be tempered by the other, he showed himself so incompetent that he could not be trusted with the rank even of a colonel of infantry; nor did he succeed any better in business transactions, for sometimes by his obstinate silence he inspired suspicion, and sometimes by his vain eloquence, even more obstinate, contempt. Hence the Medicis abstained from employing him, and kept him at home, like the Bucentaur, the ornamented and useless galley which the Venetians used to bring out on the occasion of the marriage of the Doge with the Adriatic; so his commissions consisted of congratulations, as his three embassies to France bear witness, where he was sent the first time to congratulate the Duke d'Anjou upon the victory which he had gained at Moncontour over the Admiral Coligny; the second was when Charles IX. espoused Elizabeth, the second daughter of the Emperor Maximilian; the third and last when the Duke d'Anjou, afterwards Henry III., was chosen King of Poland. And yet so vainglorious was he, that he never ceased reminding Isabella of the many and great sacrifices which he had made for her, in not fighting battles which he never would have fought, and constantly longed for the victories which he never could have achieved. His love for Isabella was idleness, the impulse of youthful blood, pride in conquering a woman so handsome and so deservedly celebrated. He soon grew weary of it, since forms, however beautiful, please by their variety; and the lady's talent, by humiliating him, was to him rather a cause of dislike than of admiration. I will not affirm that he hated Isabella, but he chafed impatiently under the tie, and even more impatiently when he found that he could not free himself from it, and strengthened it irrevocably by a fatal knot. His mind was closed against the noble, the decorous, the right, and the beautiful. If Isabella recited her own or another's poetry, he would fall asleep—a terrible slight to a poet, but to a poetess culpable beyond measure. Music gave him the headache. With all this he was tormented by a cold and apathetic jealousy, not because he loved Isabella, but because he wished Isabella to love him;—he wished that all might read around her neck these words, which used to be engraved upon the collars of slaves: "The property of Troilo Orsini." In short, the time had arrived when the joyous rosy garland woven by love was changed to a chain of remorse and hate, forged by the hands of the infernal Furies.

[CHAPTER III.]
THE KNIGHT LIONARDO SALVIATI.

Essendo di fortuna e d'ingegno meno che mediocre, mi sento non dimanco avere dalla natura un bene particolare ed egregio, nel quale io mi sento tanto superiore a molti, quanto quasi di ogni uomo in tutte le altre cose mi conosco più basso. Questa è una cotal mirabile inclinazione, ed una come natural conoscenza ch'io ho nella amicizia.... Io sono a questa parte quasi rapito dallo Dio del mio ingegno.
Salviati, Dialogo dell' Amicizia.

Although I am less than mediocre both in fortune and talents, yet I feel that nature has gifted me with a particular and lofty blessing, in which I feel myself so much superior to others, as I know myself in almost everything else inferior to all other men. This is a wonderful inclination, and natural knowledge which I have in friendship.... I feel in this respect almost exalted by the god of my genius....
Salviati, Dialogue on Friendship.

As poets sometimes describe a pensive maiden straying by the margin of a brook, plucking the leaves from a rose, scattering them to the mercy of the current, and watching the wave that carries them away, so Isabella, with her cheek resting on her hand, her eyes closed, mused upon the dear remembrances borne down upon the stream of time. Where was her innocence? Where her youthful affections? Where the serene purity of her mind? The tree of life, that once appeared so fresh with perpetual verdure, now how horribly bare! And the few leaves that remain, rustle drily, and are ready to fall with the slightest wind that blows. Of Cosimo's daughters, she alone is left; Mary died at seventeen for love; Lucretia, perhaps through the same cause, disappeared from the world at twenty-one. Love had been a star of evil auspice for the women of the Medici family! The dear boy, Don Garcia, had abandoned her, and she could never think of him without her imagination depicting the angelic face, that wished to speak to her but could not, and tried to sign to her with his head, while his hair, dripping with blood, stained his beautiful face. God knows how this thought pierced her heart! For the report of the domestic tragedy had reached her ears, but her frightened soul shrank in horror at believing it true. Her father, Cosimo, whom, however severe or cruel towards his other children, she had found kind, was still young when he left this world, and although in dying he left her, as manifest tokens of his love, seven thousand dollars, a palace, three thousand dollars upon the Pisan estates, gardens and houses in Florence, and jewels worth a treasure, all this abundance of wealth had not served to procure her one friend in whom to confide, or from whom to seek counsel.

She could not depend upon Cardinal Ferdinando, as he had left his home at an early age, and, obliged to live in Rome, had there placed his heart and thoughts; or if his mind ever turned towards his home, it was through pride, or through desire of royalty, for which he was so eager that, in process of time, being exalted to the Tuscan throne, he took for coat of arms the King of the bees, with the motto: Majestate tantum. Besides which, she had but little reason to consider him kindly-disposed towards her, as she had, in times past, rather favored than opposed the intrigue of Don Francesco with Bianca; but perceiving that this passion was taking deep root, and might become a source of great trouble, she had endeavored to repair her fault, by thwarting it to the utmost of her power, which only excited against her the bitter hatred of Francesco and the vengeance of Bianca, and did not succeed, on the other hand, in restoring to her the friendship of Cardinal Ferdinando, much less that of Queen Giovanna, her sister-in-law.

Giovanna, a very pious woman, was still a woman wounded in her dearest affections as wife and mother, and in the pride of her noble lineage, seeing a Venetian adventuress preferred to her, the daughter of an Emperor, and by birth the Queen of Hungary and Bohemia. This grief, which continually tormented her mind and preyed upon her health, at last rendered her so eager for revenge in any form, that, happening one evening, in crossing the bridge of the Santa Trinità, to meet Bianca, she ordered the carriage to stop, and commanded her guards to throw her enemy into the Arno; and if it had not been for Count Eliodoro Bastigli, a very worthy nobleman, who begged her to consider how unbecoming such an act would be to a Queen and a Christian, adding also that she should leave her cause to God, and offer her sorrows as an expiation for her sins, that would have been the last day of Bianca's life, since the guards, not very scrupulous about such matters, were on the point of laying violent hands upon her. Still this poor Giovanna could not so entirely conquer herself as not to hate mortally every one who had contributed to alienate her husband from her; among these, she suspected, and not unjustly, that Isabella stood first; and for this reason, and also that they were of natures, of desires, habits, and pursuits, not only different, but entirely incompatible with each other, there was no evil that she did not wish her; and although she repented and confessed her ill-will, nevertheless, weak human nature prevailing in her, she hated her worse than before.

As to Don Pietro, hardened to every kind of vice, forgetful not only of princely dignity, but even of what belonged to a man, Isabella could place as little reliance upon him. Alas! in so much sorrow, she found herself alone! No one could aid her with counsel or help. Bitter thoughts now took possession of her, and these thoughts left their trace in a furrow upon her brow and a wound in her heart, such as God alone could heal, or death steep in oblivion.

Lelio, opening the door of the saloon, announced:

"The illustrious knight, Lionardo Salviati, desires to see your Ladyship."

"Lionardo Salviati!" she exclaimed, and then added to herself, "God surely sends him to me."

And Salviati entered, introduced with due ceremony.

There is no help for it:—according to established rule I should immediately make these two persons speak, and endeavor to invent a vivid, strong, and pointed dialogue, that the interest of the narrative might not flag. In narratives or dramas, all that prevents the action from progressing freely towards its end, is to be reprehended; the different parts ought all to converge towards the denouement, like so many straight lines, for a straight line, as we all know, is the shortest distance between two points. And the good Guizot reminds those who may have forgotten it, of this maxim, when, being ambassador in London, he allowed no other device to be engraved on his plate than a straight line, with the motto: Linea recta brevissima; whence he derived in France the title of Cato, and in Paris they made illuminations and bonfires about it. Does it not seem as if in France it is very easy to acquire the title of Cato? Whoever holds the above opinion is right, but I cannot abstain from infringing on the rule. How many times has it happened to you, my amiable lady-readers, to "Know the right, and yet the wrong pursue?" And then, I am beginning to grow old, and old age is garrulous. Moreover, when I took a fancy to narrate these and other events in the form of dramatic narratives, I designed, following the dictates of such rules, to let you know all the particulars I could give in regard to the persons and the times of which my story might treat. In fact (I do not say it to all, but to the greater number of you, my beloved lady-readers), who would give you such information, if I did not? Now that we are, as it were, en famille, confess whether you would ever have had the time and patience requisite to gather it from the folio and quarto volumes in which I found it? Heavy and worm-eaten books, which would contaminate the fairness of your white kid gloves, with a trace of dust not less horrible to behold than the blood upon the side of Adonis. Allow me then to speak in my own way; be a little gracious to me, for I profess myself entirely yours, and kneeling with the knees of my mind,[2] honor you as much as I possibly can. Perhaps I shall not weary you; but should I be disappointed in this hope, the remedy lies in your own power; you can do what, in a similar case, Ludovico Ariosto advises:—

"Let him who will, pass pages three or four,
Not reading,"[3]

for the history would not be marred by your so doing, nor would it proceed less intelligibly.

Who then was, and whence came this illustrious Sir Lionardo Salviati?

Sir Lionardo was the child of Giovanbattista di Lionardo Salviati, and Ginevra di Carlo Antonio Corbinelli. His family had often been at enmity with the family of the Medici. Cardinal Salviati conspired with the Pazzi to destroy it root and branch. The attempt failed, and they hung him from the window of the Palazzo della Signoria, just as they found him, in his episcopal robes. This circumstance by no means interrupted the good friendship, much less the good relationship of the two families; and one Salviati was father-in-law of Lorenzo the Magnificent, brother-in-law of Pope Leo X., and great-grandfather of the Grand Duke Cosimo, who was the son of Maria di Jacopo Salviati, so that Lionardo might be considered a relation of Isabella. Lionardo (although it could not well be said at that time, but can with perfect propriety be mentioned now) was scarcely two years older than Isabella, and they had been educated together, so that he had always loved her tenderly, as though she had been a sister. Of a delicate constitution, and gifted by nature with an amiable disposition, he was ill adapted for the violent knightly exercises of the times, and gave himself up entirely to the study of belles lettres and philosophy. His countenance was pale, his beard thin, his expression sad; his lungs were delicate, yet he had a strong voice; his pronunciation was so clear and sweet as to attract attention; and modulating his speech more like that of a petitioner than a commander, he easily drew to himself the ears and minds of those who listened to him. The Grand Duke Cosimo had conferred upon him the Order of St. Stefano, and he, accustomed to view matters superficially, wore the red cross devoutly upon his breast, fully convinced that the founder had no other aim than that of freeing the sepulchre of Christ from the hands of the dogs (for so were called the Turks in those times, and they paid us in turn in the same coin). Lionardo was born when the destinies of the Republic were buried; educated at court, a relative of the Prince, and well treated by him, he had never listened to the fiery words of the liberals, of whom some were wandering in miserable exile, while others had been cut off either by a natural death, the judicial axe, or the dagger of the assassin. Having heard them even from his childhood branded as grumbling, mischievous men, who loved to fish in muddy streams, and who were the worst enemies of Florence, he had formed the opinion that Cosimo I. was the true liberator of the country, a faithful defender and supporter of the public safety,—a man, in short, of great worth, to be preferred to the ancients, rather than compared to the moderns. Add to this, that his vanity as writer was fully satisfied by Cosimo, who "made a pretence of patronizing men of letters, and showed it sometimes by words rather than by deeds; for no one of these was helped, honored, or supported by him, except in a slight degree."[4] And in truth, when Lionardo recited the oration in honor of his coronation, Cosimo said to him, without the slightest approach to a smile, "that among his other reasons for prizing the dignity which he had received, was this most worthy and lofty oration which had followed it,"[5] as if Cosimo, who had no more faith in white than in black, was a man to pay attention to such nonsense; but he did so to acquire renown at a cheap rate, or because he knew how much literary men love flattery, for if they often make vapory speeches, they oftener still are fed on wind. And certainly it was not Lionardo's fault if, through his writings, Cosimo was not famous in the memory of posterity, since he let no opportunity escape of exalting him to the skies with all manner of praises.

But with what reason or justice can we reproach Lionardo Salviati, when other famous writers spoke even more openly and unblushingly? We shall mention only Bernardo Davanzati, whom the translation of Tacitus ought to have inspired with the example, if not of his boldness, at least of his modesty, but who did not hesitate to declare from the pulpit, that "Cosimo's elevation was indeed a Divine dispensation, he having acquired rule, which is the most desirable and supreme of all blessings, called to it by his fellow-citizens' love, the means of all others the most just and holy, who, recognising the virtue of his heart and mind, unanimously elected him Prince in an heroic and natural manner. Siena, under his mild and lenient government, might say, like Themistocles, flying to Persia: "Woe to me if I had not lost, for then I should have been lost!" He recalled all the exiles to their homes, and restored to them their property; mild, benign, pious, most merciful, diligent in providing food that the people might not suffer famine, always eager to diminish the public taxes, and so solicitous for justice, that he loved it better than himself, of which he gave a manifest proof, when, while the war against Pietro Strozzi was raging, he prayed "God to give victory not to himself, but to him whose intentions were the best, and whose cause was the most just."[6] If then, I say, writers who were neither relatives nor friends did not shrink from such and similar enormities, we cannot well reproach Lionardo if he ignored, or wished to ignore, the arms prepared by Cardinal Cibo, the perfidy of Francesco Vettori, of Roberto Acciaiuoli, of Matteo Strozzi, of the worst of all of them Francesco Guicciardini, the terrors spread, the violences committed, and the night of January 8, 1537, when, Cosimo being present, it was decided between the above mentioned persons, and Alessandro Vitelli, to elect Cosimo Duke, and if it were necessary, even to use force; and the morning of the 9th, when amidst the shouts of the soldiers who cried: "Hurra for the Duke and the Medici!"—and the threats of Vitelli, who swore "that if the Senators did not hasten to elect Cosimo, they would be all dead men," he was unanimously elected Duke.

Cosimo had promised Guicciardini that he would allow himself to be guided by him entirely; but for this once the intriguer was over-reached, and, strange as it may seem, by a youth of eighteen, who had promised also to marry Guicciardini's daughter, but the latter had not even the courage to remind him of it, and died overwhelmed with self-reproaches and the contempt of others.

It is the duty of an historian (but I am a poor novelist), it is the duty of every honest man to relate the good deeds of which human nature is justly proud. Benedetto Varchi, in the fifteenth book of his Histories, fearlessly narrates a noble act; first of all, he mentions that on the night preceding the unanimous election of Cosimo, it was resolved in a very secret conclave, that he should be elected Duke by any means, even if it involved the necessity of using force; and then relates an anecdote of the good Palla Rucellai, who boldly said that he no longer wished in the Republic either Princes or Dukes, and to prove that his deeds were consistent with his words, he took the black ball, and showing it to all, threw it into the ballot-box, exclaiming: "This is my vote." Then when Guicciardini and Vettori reproved him for this, observing that his ball could count only for one, he replied: "If you had decided beforehand what you intended to do, there was no need of calling me;" and he rose to depart; but Cardinal Cybo detained him with cunning mildness, and endeavored to frighten him with the show of the surrounding arms, and representing the danger which he might incur; but the brave man, not at all startled, replied: "Sir Cardinal, I am already more than sixty-two years old, so that now they can do me but very little harm." These are magnanimous examples, which can never be remembered or praised enough; and as many times as I consider that Benedetto Varchi wrote these histories by order of Cosimo, and read them to him, and that he listened to them without showing any resentment, I feel forced to conclude, that men capable of telling the truth seem to me even more rare than Princes capable of listening to it, and that adulation is oftener the cowardice of courtiers than the requisition of Princes.

Behold how joyful Siena was! Of the thirty thousand souls which it contained before the war, hardly ten thousand remained; what with the misery, the battles, and painful massacres which he who wishes can find described in the Diary of Sozzini, or the narratives of Roffia, fifty thousand peasants perished, without enumerating those who took refuge in foreign lands. The country was deserted, the cultivation of the fields entirely neglected, and manufactures destroyed, so that Siena feels the consequences of it, even to this day. And as Tacitus says: "They make a desert and they call it peace."

Scipione Ammirato, either through conscientious scruples or horror unwilling to betray the truth, and equally unwilling to displease the Medicis, by whose orders he was writing, bethought himself of the expedient of leaving a hiatus in his history, which resembles the veil painted by Timanthes before the face of Agamemnon, in the sacrifice of Iphigenia. Bernardo Segni, on the contrary, in the histories which were published after his death, described this infamy of Siena, saying in conclusion: "They surrendered to the Duke, after having lost all their dominions, destroyed all their property, and the lives of almost all the men of that city and province."

As regards provisions, ten times there was a scarcity, and three times it was so great that people starved to death; nor in small numbers, for in the famine of 1554, over sixty thousand people died in Florence and throughout the state.[7]

That he was mild and merciful, let certain extracts from manuscripts in the Magliabecchian and Riccardian libraries testify, from which we learn that in a very few years one hundred and thirty of the principal citizens of Florence were declared rebels; most of those who fell into his hands were either hung or beheaded; some were sent to the prisons or galleys; several assassinated; the property of all of them was confiscated, and even the dowries of the women. On most of the petitions imploring the life of some rebel, Cosimo inscribed with his own hand: "Let him be hung."[8] I have read somewhere, that he retained one thousand assassins in his employ; nor were they all plebeians, but some of them people of good standing; he himself was personally the executioner of several, since, not to mention his son, Don Garcia, no historian denies that he killed with his own hand Sforza Almeni of Perugia, "allowing, however," adds Aldo Manuzio, "the property of the murdered man to go to his heirs, and fulfilling his will as expressed in a certain document which was found in his pocket." Does not this seem to you the act of a most benign Prince!

As to the prayer made to God in the war with Strozzi, that He would give the victory to the righteous cause, we find testimonies respecting it in his commission to the Bishop of Cortona, who was sent to France under the pretext of paying his respects to the Queen, but in reality to corrupt the servants of Piero Strozzi, so that they might administer to their master the poison which he himself took to them in a vial, whereby he acquired the nickname of Bishop of the Vial,[9] and also in the letter written to Captain Giovanni Orandini, preserved in the Annal XII. of the Colombaria, in which we read the following words, in regard to the order to assassinate Piero Strozzi: "Hence going to Siena, either by a gunshot, or in whatever other way may seem best to you, rid us of the arrogance of this man; in return for which, we can promise ten thousand crowns in cash, and our protection, besides honors and emoluments."[10] Consequently it behoves us to confess that if he trusted much in God, he trusted even more in gunshots, or rather, that if it is true that he invoked the name of God, it was because he who is accustomed to deceive men, rises at last to such a degree of folly as to believe that he can even deceive God. And in reference also to his moderation in imposing taxes upon the people, let the following extract from an impartial historian suffice: "He oppressed the citizens and subjects with unheard of taxes, doubling the old, and adding new ones; in managing the state, he has in a great measure ruined the honor and property of his native place, and Tuscany."[11]

He was indeed pious too, for after Scarperia had been destroyed, and Florence threatened by an earthquake, and the Palazzo della Signoria had been seven times struck by lightning in one day, he issued several decrees against blasphemy and other sins; and in addition to this, with a praiseworthy readiness, no sooner had he received the letter of Pius V., requesting him to consign Monsignor Pietro Carnesecchi to the Master of the Inquisition, accompanied by a recommendation from the Cardinal Pacheco (who mentioned to Cosimo that he had praised him before the Pope for two things, viz. that there was no prince in all Christendom more zealous for the Inquisition than he, and that there was nothing that the Pontiff's pleasure desired that he would not be willing to do), than without any delay, for Carnesecchi was in his own house, nay, even seated at his own dinner-table, he had him arrested and consigned to the Master. This violation of the duties of hospitality and the ties of friendship, for Carnesecchi had always been well disposed towards the house of the Medicis, and had long served Clement VII. as prothonotary, and Cosimo as secretary in Venice—this sacrifice of a man celebrated for his goodness and learning by Sadoleto, by Bembo, by Mureto, and by Manuzio, although Ammirato, eager to depreciate the importance of the man, calls him not an ignorant person—this sacrifice, I say, deserved a proportionate reward, which, if we do not find openly promised, is clearly enough hinted at in the following words from the letter of June 19th, 1566, from Cardinal Pacheco to Cosimo: "Be then assured, that the good relation which your Excellency will hold with the Pope during this pontificate, will in a great measure depend upon this." In fact, Pietro Carnesecchi was decapitated and burned as an heretic on the 3d of October, 1567; and Cosimo was, by sanction of the Pope, crowned Grand Duke, with the privilege of wearing the royal crown, on the 4th of March, 1569. Carnesecchi suffered death with wonderful constancy, even with some ostentation of fortitude, for he dressed himself in his choicest garments and white gloves; but was Cosimo equally tranquil, when he closed his eyes in "that sleep which knows no waking?"

Notwithstanding these facts, known then by what has been before mentioned, and at the present day by being printed in history, I, for my part, would forgive the magnificent Knight Salviati for praising Cosimo and lauding to the skies his mercy, his valor, his prowess, and clemency, placing him before Augustus, since the latter had to use proscription, while the former had not; although Cosimo himself was contented to resemble Augustus, under whose constellation, which was Capricornus, his astrologer Don Basilio assured him that he was born; but a fault for which neither I nor any one else can pardon Salviati is the following sentence, which, since I shudder to put my hands upon it, I shall report as it is written:

"They who refuse the government of their country or republic, when offered to them, have given manifest proof, not only of the cowardice of their minds, but of impiety and arrogance. Of cowardice, I say, failing in courage, and refusing honors and governments, which are very desirable; of impiety, if, knowing themselves capable, they have denied their services to their country; of arrogance, if, thinking themselves incompetent, they have preferred their own opinion of themselves to the judgment of their country."

Ah! Sir Lionardo, what sad reasoning is this! How sophistical, cunning, and entirely unworthy of a grave man does it sound! How far did the evil genius of lying flattery carry you! Would it seem honest to you if any one should accept the gifts of a crazy man? Much more if they are gifts which ought not to be made, and such is the liberty of one's own country, which cannot be alienated, for it is derived from God, and belongs to Him; it is not peculiar to any, but appertains to all generations; and the present generation, disinheriting posterity of it, as an enemy of its own race commits an unlawful act. Is a physician arrogant when he does not neglect the disease of a sick man, but mercifully cures him? The people, when wearied of their own dignity, crouch on the ground like the camel, entreating some one to ride them (even if they are not driven to it, as is generally the case, by treachery or fraud); in this condition they can either be cured or not. In the first case they ought to be cured, and then, if the example of Lycurgus seems too hard to follow, one ought to adopt that of Solon, or Andrea Doria, or choose voluntary exile, for a man can ill live as a citizen where he has ruled as a prince; in the second case, all efforts being of no avail, let him, like Sylla, throw away the battle-axe, and abandon them to the wrath of God. Such at least ought to be the rule of those men whom the world calls great, and who, after having departed from this world, furnish themes for the tongues of orators and the fancy of poets, and remind us of our divine origin. To no citizen is it permitted, either by force or by genius, offered or usurped, to take away the liberty of his country; morality, affection, religion, especially the Christian religion, all forbid it. Yes, indeed, the Christian religion, because, rejecting the distinction of St. Thomas as scholastic, and proposed rather as an abstract disquisition, than as true in practice, between a tyrant imposed upon us by force, and a tyrant imposed voluntarily by ourselves, that act is right, which we can always choose, as Aristotle teaches. Now how can the usurpation of one's country ever be eligible? As to the usurper, can he or will he consult from time to time the will of the people? Will he know, or will he wish to know, if the movement that so exalted him was truly spontaneous and universal? When it will decline or when cease? As to the people, may it not be a transient hallucination and infirmity of the country, since the country consists in the faithful association of the citizens, to which we consecrate our affection and reverence, and if needed, our property and our lives; and this removed, the place in which we live cannot be called our country, nor deserve such sacrifices. If our country is more than a mother to us, who is there that could enslave his own mother? If a mother were to propose it, she should be treated as an insane person, and not be listened to; and if the son were to accept it, he should be abhorred as impious. And mark, that such usurpations are usually surrounded with appearances of free elections; Julius Cæsar himself ordered that in the Lupercalia he should be presented with a crown. Moreover, liberty, next to life, is our most precious possession; now the dearer anything is to us, the less we can presume to make a gift of it; and if even it could be alienated, can we look upon liberty as legitimately yielded, if surrendered in a moment of passion, fury, or error? Finally, let us imagine that the country, when in trouble, should call upon a citizen to restore it to peace; certainly his rule is needed until the object be accomplished. Now, either the citizen is capable of accomplishing the wish of his country or he is not; if capable, let him fulfil the duty to which he is called, and then retire; if not capable, he fails in his object, and must retire. But I, perchance, am endeavoring to demonstrate what does not need demonstration: what presumption, what folly it is, to prove by means of arguments what nature and God have engraven in our hearts! Lionardo Salviati, writing the above-mentioned sentences, did not perhaps believe them himself; he did it for a show of eloquence, or rather for rhetorical paradox, and he perceived his error, though too late to repair it, and was never happy afterwards, but cursed the hour in which be learned to write prose; dismayed when the truth was presented to his mind, awe-struck by memories of blood, he begged God, who mercifully listened to his prayer, to shorten a life so ill employed in behalf of the truth and of mankind, whom, nevertheless, he ardently loved.

It remains to be seen how high in literature our Salviati ought to be ranked, but the nature of this book not allowing it as I could wish, I will do my best to contract the whole into a short space. He was a very profound scholar, both in the Greek and Latin languages, and an excellent master of the Italian; he acquired and treasured up a much larger amount of learning than he taught or published; according to the custom of those literati, whom we can compare to nothing better than a miser's chests; he composed a great deal of poetry, both grave and gay, which, thank heaven, is at the present day neither known nor published. At the age of twenty he wrote the Dialogue on Friendship, in which he introduces Girolamo Benivieni to speak the praises of friendship to Jacopo Salviati and Piero Ridolfi. The subject might indeed have been an affecting one, as he feigned that, on account of the loss of his best friend, Pico della Mirandola, a wonderful youth, called the Phoenix of talents, Girolamo had determined to starve himself to death; but he afterwards came to a wiser decision; he changed his grief into joy, imagining that God had called Pico before his time, as most deserving to share the rewards of the saints in heaven; but the soulless words, the pedantic distinctions, the want of imagination and heart excite in us neither pleasure nor pity, and weariness overcomes us before we reach the end. His comedies, "La Spina" and "Il Granchio," are a mixture made from the fragments left by Plautus and Terence, so that it is easy to imagine what they are. The usual old match-making nurses, the usual cheats and blacklegs, credulous old men, impossible incidents, improbable recognitions, Florentine jests, and heavy language, so that we wonder how people could take delight in such representations, which at the present day we should hardly dare to impose upon them as a penance. As to his five essays upon a sonnet of Petrarch, we have only to say that they prove rather the extent of our forefathers' wonderful patience, than the great genius of the author. His orations, the funeral ones particularly, are really flowers for the dead. Under the nom de plume of Infarinato[12] he wounded with bitter writings the sorrowful spirit of Torquato Tasso; but the Jerusalem remains, and the writings of Salviati are read by no one; and this act injures Salviati both as a writer and as a man, if indeed even in this, his blind devotion to the house of the Medicis does not excuse him. He abridged the Decameron of Boccaccio, but posterity laugh at his abridgment, and wish Boccaccio entire. However, he had a great veneration for this eminent author, and wrote three volumes of Advices in regard to the beauty of the language drawn from the Decameron: these volumes may, even in our own day, and perhaps now more than ever, be consulted by the students of our most glorious tongue. The language used by Salviati is pure, but says nothing; it seems an ornament of a corpse; no ideas, no thought, no imagination; obliged to avoid the great, which is the truth, he was compelled to have recourse to the false, and we can already perceive in him the sad dawn of the sixteenth century. In proof of what I say, let the following extract from his Oration for the Coronation of Cosimo I. bear witness:—"These walls, most blessed father, and these houses, and these temples, seem to burn with the desire to present themselves before the feet of your Holiness, and this river, and these shores, and these mountains seem to desire feet in order to come to you, and these seas, and this heaven, a tongue to speak, and, if unable to tell all that is in their hearts, at least to thank you, and personally to acknowledge themselves your debtors for so great a benefit." Abundant words, no eloquence, epithets, adjectives, expletives without number, one period intermingled by so many other periods intermingling again among themselves, that the elocution is confused, difficult, entangled, and, above all, painful. Parini thought that he might be read with advantage; I, except the Advices already mentioned, do not think so; and Annibale Caro, although somewhat inclined to the same opinion regarding Salviati, let it be clearly understood that he did not consider his style commendable, for it was exceedingly verbose, wandered uncertainly, was full of meaningless epithets, of long periods, and of many more sentences than were necessary for clearness of expression, which engenders confusion, and wearies the listeners.

In short, Sir Lionardo was neither a good citizen nor a powerful writer, and yet a man of excellent natural disposition, affectionate to his friends, and most eager for their welfare. Some will think it impossible that one individual could be the best of men and yet a bad citizen; but if there is any contradiction we see it in nature, and I could mention modern examples if propriety allowed.

Lionardo, entering the room, first took good care to ascertain that the page had closed the door, then drew a screen before it, and advanced smilingly towards Isabella, extending his hand. But Isabella rushed impulsively towards him, and placing her hand on his shoulder, and leaning her head upon his breast, exclaimed:

"O my good and noble Lionardo, you at least have not forgotten your Isabella."

Lionardo, confused and deeply moved by such an exhibition of feeling, replied:

"My dear lady Isabella, how or why should I have forgotten you?"

They stood thus for a little while, and then seating themselves upon the couch, Isabella, looking in his face, continued:

"It is so long since we have seen each other; and you look ill. Lionardo, such excess of study injures you."

"O Isabella," said Lionardo, "my trouble is here," and he struck his heart, "and I pray God daily that He will call me to His holy peace, and it seems as if He most mercifully was beginning to listen to me. But let us not talk of myself—I do not come here on my own account, your ladyship. Now I pray you to hear what I have to say, as if I were a brother. So long as I knew you to be, if not happy, at least safe, I kept far from you. I might have wished you to remain happy, because," and here he lowered his voice, "true happiness consists in a life of virtue; but my endeavors have been useless, as well as the admonitions of Cosimo, your father, who often warned you, saying 'Isabella, I shall not live for ever.'"

Isabella, calling up all her womanly pride, interrupted him:

"Sir Lionardo, what are you saying? If I am not mistaken you mean to offend me."

"Isabella, surely I did not come here for that. Do you believe that I take pleasure in saying what I do? Do you think that I have spent my years so uselessly as to hazard imprudent words or worse? Why do you repulse me? Why dissemble with me? But no matter; I do not ask the secrets of your heart. If you do not believe me worthy of sharing them, I consent to remain ignorant. But hear what is said of you; hear the danger and let us provide a remedy."

"I have done no wrong; who can accuse me? What trace"——

Salviati murmured in her ear, "The trace is outside the gate of Prato."

"Ah!" cried Isabella frightened, and starting up after a few moments as if to go away, added, "At least let him be saved."

Lionardo, detaining her by her dress, said, "Stay, we can see to it better here."

Isabella, shaking her head, tossed her hair with both hands from her forehead, as if, grown bold by despair, she wished all her shame to be read there, and murmured—

"Well, I am guilty."

"Isabella, your life is in danger."

"Mine? And by whom? Has Giordano returned from Rome?"

"No. But what has Giordano to do with it?"

"And who but he could with justice attempt my life? Francesco? Would he punish in another his own sin? Piero? So plunged in every kind of vice that the waters of the Arno would not suffice to purify him."

"Justice? And do you, a daughter of Cosimo, seek for justice here below? Francesco hates in others what he indulges in himself. A doubtful rumor has reached his ears that his enemies, rejoicing as the wicked do, despise his family, publishing accusations that are not true, or which, if true, proceed mostly from himself; and in his dark soul he suspects his Bianca, and wishes to frighten her, that she may never have a single affection except for him."

"Lionardo, you speak dreadful words, which, though I cannot disprove, I yet cannot entirely believe. In fact they seem mostly suspicions; but there is a great difference between thinking a thing and wishing it, and between wishing and doing it."

"Yes, truly; your relations are accustomed to submit their fierce passions to reason; but I must undertake the thankless office of speaking ill of persons whose reputation is dear to you. Isabella, believe me, upon my soul your life is in danger."

"Lionardo, you who are so wise must understand only too well how in such important matters man cannot easily be convinced by the belief of others. You have done much, too much perhaps, to permit you to deny me the lesser"—

"It is true; and I have come here ready to hazard my life. I do not ask discretion for myself, I ask it for you, and for one whom I know you love better than yourself."

"It is well. Speak."

"Yesterday morning early I went to see Don Francesco, who had sent to ask me about some correction of Boccaccio, which I had undertaken by his orders. He was in his laboratory. I nevertheless caused myself to be announced by a valet, who returned shortly, telling me to go in there, for his Highness would receive me as one of the family unceremoniously in his study. I found Don Francesco very busy over a furnace, examining some substance in a glass vial. As soon as he saw me, he said, 'Good morning and a happy year, cousin Lionardo. I am in the midst of an experiment which does not seem to succeed very well. Now I will read your work on the Decameron, which you have corrected to your own liking, letting the beauties remain and taking away whatever offends good taste and religion. What a pity that Giovanni Boccaccio had not good taste! But is there no danger, Lionardo, that he is utterly lost? Or is it true that before dying he repented and left the world in the odor of sanctity?' To which question I replied that the holy Giovanni Colombini, in the life of the holy Pietro dei Petroni, assures us that the holy Pietro, a little while before his departure to a better life, sent Giovacchini Ciani to reprove Boccaccio for his writings and for his bad taste, and at the same time to reveal certain secrets, so buried in his own memory that he was very sure that no one but himself knew of them, which so affected Boccaccio that he bitterly mourned his past errors, and confessing himself before God made a wonderful repentance. 'Thanks,' replied Francesco, 'you have given me great consolation in assuring me that our Giovanni is in a place of safety. Now be kind enough to wait for me a few minutes while I despatch this business. Go into the library, you will find a goodly number of books, besides several new ones.' I entered the library and pretended to read the first book that I took up, but in reality watched the doings of Francesco. He kept blowing the fire and looking at the vial; then turning to a little vase upon the table and taking from it a pinch of powder, he examined it attentively and said, 'I must confess our ancestors knew more than we do, or that they pretended to. The color is there; the appearance is the same; but the taste—the taste—and without doubt there must be arsenic in it. Yet in the notes of my Poggio, and in the Trivigiana Chronicle, I find that the Count de Virtù (by my faith that title seems to fit him well!) poisoned his uncle Bernabo with a poison that seemed precisely like salt, putting it very naturally upon French beans; but I have not been able to find it. I would give a thousand ducats.' Just then a valet entered and announced the High Sheriff. I know not why, but I began to tremble. I looked around the room to see if there were any outlet, and perceived a door opening upon the court-yard. Just as I was on the point of going out, God inspired me to turn back. I followed the inspiration, as I have always found it best to do, and began to listen carefully. The Sheriff had entered and was saying, 'The Knight Antinori, as your Serene Highness knows, arrived yesterday from Porto Ferraio.'"

"How!" interrupted Isabella, "the Knight Bernardo in Florence without our knowledge?"

"The Knight Antinori is at this moment in his grave, God have mercy upon his soul!"

"Holy Mother of God! What do I hear? Are you sure of it, Lionardo?"

"Let me finish. The Sheriff continued: 'We brought him immediately to the Knight Serguidi, who threatened him terribly for the shame brought upon his Prince, warning him, should he find him guilty, that he would leave him to your mercy. But the Knight denied all steadfastly, until Serguidi produced a letter, saying in a menacing tone: "Can you deny this?" The Knight, as soon as he saw the paper, became as white as a sheet; perfectly overwhelmed, he raised his hands in entreaty, without uttering a word. "Go," added Serguidi, "you do not deserve pardon." The Knight departed trembling, and went mechanically towards his house. I followed him with some guards, and amused myself with watching him.' 'Your usual habit!' interrupted Francesco; 'give me the bellows; go on, I am listening; tell all, for I take pleasure in it.' And the Sheriff continued: 'He went as if by inspiration, for he went towards the palace. When he had reached the gate of Lions, I advanced and said to him: "Sir, be pleased to allow me to serve you as major-domo; our most noble master has ordered lodgings suitable for you to be prepared here." The Knight looked at me as if in a dream, but let me lead him like a lamb: this morning, before daybreak, I entered his prison with the chaplain, and he was sleeping like one enchanted—' 'Was sleeping?' asked Francesco, lifting up his face, which seemed as if stained with blood, from the burning coals. 'He was sleeping.' 'He should not have slept.' 'Yet he did sleep.' 'You let him pass his last night in peace. So it may be said that he suffered nothing. And I cannot begin over again. Is it not so?' The Sheriff gave an affirmative nod with his head, and continued: 'I shook him, and he awoke, and raising himself up into a sitting posture on the bed, asked: "What is it?" "Rouse yourself for a moment," I replied to him, "and afterwards you may sleep at your ease; here is a priest; you have but one hour to live."' 'And what did he say?' said Francesco. 'He replied: "May God's will be done."' 'What! did he say that?' 'He did.' 'But have they no fear of death?' 'It seems that you have accustomed them to it.' 'In this case, death seems too small a thing; we will take care in future.' 'He confessed in due form, and then asked me for writing materials. I brought him paper, pen, and ink, but he trembled so that he could not write a word. Look, your Highness,' and he showed a paper. Francesco, putting down the bellows, took it, and after examining it, said: 'What an odd thing, I can read nothing here.' 'I told you he could not write a word. Then I thought it well to observe: "Sir Knight, since I perceive that you are unable to do your duty, allow me to do mine;" I then handcuffed him, and putting a rope round his neck, hung him according to your command.' 'It is well—and the Captain Francesco!' 'Oh, the Captain had got wind of it and escaped; he cannot be found in Florence.' Don Francesco burst into a great passion, his mouth quivered and his eyes sparkled. 'Go, pursue him!' he exclaimed, 'send special couriers, despatch horses—to the confines—to the confines.' But the Sheriff knew not what to do. Meantime the glass vial, from some unknown cause, burst, and some of the fragments of the broken glass struck the Sheriff on the face, penetrating into the flesh; he uttered a cry of pain. Don Francesco then, in a moment, grew thoughtful and silent, except that turning towards the Sheriff, he said coldly: 'Hasten to cure yourself, for the glass is poisoned.' The Sheriff fled hastily, groaning: 'Oh, my poor wife and children!' If any one at that moment had tried to bleed me, not a drop of blood would have followed the lancet. I felt as if nailed to the spot. I began to commend my soul to God, but by good chance Francesco sank into a seat, leaning his head down, as if buried in profound thought; and I distinctly heard him mutter more than once to himself: 'Now, we will look after the women, and quickly too; but Giordano is in Rome, and without his consent it would not be right; I might take the liberty—but no—let him think to render an account—to whom? To God—to God! Oh, this God lays claim to so many accounts!' I meantime, having regained my courage, went softly out by the door that opened into the court-yard, and took refuge under the open vault of heaven, for while in that house I feared every moment that the walls of the accursed place would fall upon us!"

Isabella seemed petrified by this atrocious recital; and the unhappy Lionardo, burying his face in his hands, said in a mournful voice:

"O my God! I have used my speech, the noblest gift with which Thou hast endowed man, to praise these Medicis! What will posterity think of me? May my works be scattered! May my descendants soon forget them! And thou, O Lord, who seest my sorrow by my wishing oblivion for the creations of my mind, for which I have spent my health and talents, Thou knowest how truly this prayer comes from my heart."

Great indeed must have been the grief that saddened the heart of Lionardo Salviati!

But soon recalling himself to the present emergency, Salviati turned to Isabella and said:

"Come, Isabella, courage!"

"It is not fear that affects me—it is horror, it is shuddering dread. Unhappy Eleonora! so young, so happy, so attached to pleasures and to life! We must save her, we must warn her."

"My Lady, remember, it is not your secret; we will think of saving her afterwards."

"Well, my only friend, my father, my all; I intrust myself soul and body in your hands."

"It is well, time presses; you must write a letter to her Majesty Catherine of France; she has a noble heart; bred to misfortunes, she must have learned to help the unfortunate; and a Medici herself by birth, she will shrink from having her family disgraced by domestic tragedies. Relationship also may do something, and each of these considerations separately, or all combined, seem to me more than enough to excite her royal heart to grant you an asylum, and provide means for your flight. I will undertake the responsibility of a letter reaching her at Paris; this evening a relation of mine, one of the Corbinelli family, a discreet and prudent young man, sets out for Lyons, and he can either consign it to the Lieutenant of the city, or if he does not consider it safe to do so, will for my sake carry it himself to Paris. As soon as we receive a reply, it will not be difficult to convey you to Leghorn, and when there, you can embark for Genoa, or, better still, for Marseilles; reaching which you may think yourself safe—"

"But Eleonora?"

"Then we will warn her, and she can either join you, or go to Spain to the Duke d'Alba, or to her brother the Viceroy of Naples. But now you must write the letter, for time flies." Isabella began to write; but although she had a wonderful facility in composition, words now seemed to fail her; she hesitated and kept beginning anew: many and deep feelings, as may be easily imagined, disturbed her mind. At last the letter was written, and she said:

"See, Lionardo, if it reads well; I never in my life composed anything with more difficulty than this letter. Forget that you are the Infarinato, I beg of you—"

"Let us begin."

"'Most honored Queen: one related to you by ties of blood, the only surviving daughter of Cosimo dei Medici, entreats you to save her life. Permit me to be silent as to whether I am innocent or guilty of the crime which my death is intended to expiate; but if guilty, let my youth, the absence of my husband, opportunity, the examples set before me, and a woman's heart overflowing with love, plead for me, as one not entirely unworthy of pardon. I have much to fear from the Duke of Bracciano, my husband, and more from my brother Francesco. I confide implicitly in you; give me that assistance which the urgency of the case demands, that it may not be too late. To me, you will preserve life, to your house, fame, and you will perform an act worthy of such a magnanimous Queen, and one for which God will amply reward you. I will follow whatever course your prudence may dictate, hoping and wishing to spend in some holy convent, devoted to God's service, the remainder of my miserable life, and to obtain through His mercy, remission of my sins."

"'To Catherine, Queen of France.'"

"It seems right to me; copy it, and add that an answer should be directed to me."

"But," added Isabella, looking down and blushing, "shall I abandon Troilo?"

"Troilo," answered Lionardo gravely, "knows that the Turks are threatening Christendom; he must go to Hungary to fight the enemies of the faith, and by an honorable death gain God's pardon. But be careful that he knows nothing of all this; he will certainly ruin you and himself too."

Isabella uttered a deep sigh, and with trembling hand began to copy the letter. As soon as it was finished, Lionardo burned the first copy and made an envelope with great care; he sealed the letter with the Medici arms, and just as he was about to write the direction, he heard a noise as of a body thrown with violence against the wall, and then falling upon the pavement; the door was suddenly opened, and Troilo appeared, drawing aside the screen; standing in the door-way, he exclaimed with anger:

"One would think that you were weary of life!"

Lionardo concealed the letter in his bosom as quickly as possible; but not so expeditiously but that Troilo perceived the movement, and advancing a few steps into the room, stopped, and fixing his sinister eyes with an ironical smile upon the Duchess, said:

"Since you choose to place guards at your door, I advise your ladyship to select, if not more impertinent—that is impossible—at least more valiant ones."

"I thought that, in my own house, the declaration of my will would be sufficient——"

"But you thought wrong, for you see that I have entered." And then laying aside his ironical tone, he added angrily: "What subterfuges, what treasons are these? You would betray me, Lady Isabella! But if death is to be met, remember there are two of us. If you are of the Medici race, I am of the Orsini; and I swear by Heaven that no dog ever bit me, without my being revenged on him. What are you doing, Sir Knight? What paper is that which you have hidden in your bosom? Take it out quickly, I must see it."

"Sir Knight," replied Salviati, in an unruffled voice, "it is something which does not in the least concern you, and you cannot honorably demand——"

"We can decide upon that after reading the letter."

"Permit me to decline satisfying you, Sir Knight."

"Signor Salviati, I am little used to opposition; give me the letter, it will be better for you."

"Troilo, if you esteem my favor dear to you, I command you to be silent and depart——"

"Isabella, it is now time for you to cease commanding and begin to obey."

"Sir Troilo, I assure you upon the faith of an honorable Knight, that this does not concern you."

"Faith! Perhaps the same with which you sounded the praises of his Highness, Sir Cosimo! An honorable Knight never enters by stealth the house of another, nor meddles in affairs that do not concern him, nor hatches plots, for if they were not plots, you would not refuse to give an account of them."

"And who are you, then, Sir Troilo, I pray you——"

"I?—I am he to whom the Duke of Bracciano gave the charge of his wife——"

"And dare you make a right of this charge? Ah! Sir Troilo."

"What do you mean, Salviati? Beware! I am a man capable of cutting out your tongue—you know——"

"Troilo, how can you so far forget yourself? You owe him as much respect as if he were my brother."

"Your brothers are worthy of respect, truly! The letter, Salviati—the letter!"

"I will never give it to you."

"Beware, or I will use force——"

"Would you act the ruffian? Do you not see that I am unarmed?"

"So much the better; I can the more easily accomplish my wishes. But had you a sword, it would make no difference; he who wields the pen, can ill wield the sword."

"The letter is next my heart," said Salviati, crossing his arms over his breast, "and you shall not have it unless you tear forth both."

"And I will do it——"

"Madman! Before touching him, you must pass over my body!" cried Isabella, rushing between Troilo and Lionardo.

"Back!" exclaimed Troilo, and with one dash of the hand he pushed the Duchess upon the couch.

"Ah miserable, miserable Isabella! For what a man have you sacrificed your life!"

"The letter!"

"I have told you the only way to obtain it."

"Your blood be upon your own head."—And drawing his dagger with his left hand, Troilo sought to stab him. Lionardo did not move a step: intrepid, his arms still folded on his breast, he stood ready to suffer a violence to which, by his personal weakness, as well as by his being unarmed, he could oppose no resistance. Troilo had almost reached him, when the door was hastily thrown open, and Lelio Torelli appeared, much excited, and exclaimed with a loud voice:

"His Lordship, Duke of Bracciano!"

This name had the effect of a Medusa's head upon Troilo; he recoiled, quickly replacing his dagger in its sheath, and endeavoring to compose his ruffled countenance; but these two contrary sentiments, anger and self-control, instead of inducing composure, so disordered him that he was fearful to look upon.

Isabella, who was lying terrified upon the couch, raised herself as if by electricity, and stood looking intently at the door.

The Knight, Salviati, thinking that not being a member of the family, he might go out as if nothing had happened, saluting the Duke as he passed, and reserving his compliments for another time, departed without any appearance of haste, and with his usual composure. Passing through the halls and down the staircase, he wondered greatly at neither meeting the Duke, nor seeing in the court-yard nor at the door, any indications of his arrival; he did not understand what it meant, but did not deem it prudent to go back to discover, thinking that it could be explained at some other time.

Isabella and Troilo kept their eyes intently fixed upon the door for some moments, expecting to see Sir Paolo Giordano appear; but finding that they looked in vain, Troilo, overcoming his astonishment the first, asked Lelio.

"Well, where is the Duke?"

Lelio, sure by this time of Salviati's safety, turned with an ingenuous, yet at the same time mocking look towards Isabella, saying:

"His Lordship, Duke of Bracciano, sends greeting to your Ladyship, and notifies you, that after despatching a few other affairs at Rome, he depends upon joining your Ladyship towards the middle of the coming month of June."

And making a low bow, and looking somewhat askance at Troilo, he retired. Troilo, perceiving the trick, clenched his hands and muttered between his teeth:

"Traitorous dog, you shall pay me for this!"

[CHAPTER IV.]
HOMICIDE.

Franz. Voi volete farmi morire di languore. Io morrò di disperazione nella età della speranza, e voi ne avrete la colpa ... Dio mio! io che non ho goccia di sangue che non sia vostro! io, che respiro soltanto per amarvi, e per obbedirvi in tutto....

Adelaide. Esci dai mio cospetto....

Franz. Signora!

Adelaide. Va, accusami dunque al tuo signore: