CHAPTER XXXVIII.
I have heard it said that the world is weary of the picturesque inwriting, tired of landscape painters, eager only for the tale or forthe characters--the pepper and salt of fiction. So be it. But yetthere is something in a scene--in the place, in the very spot whereany great events are enacted, which gives not only an identity, but aharmony to the narrative of these events. Imola, with its old castleand its sombre walls, now repaired and strengthened by the care ofRamiro d'Orco, lay, like the hard and rugged stone of the peach, inthe centre of more sweet and beautiful things.
That was the age of villa building in Italy, and, as I have shown in aprevious part of this work, some of the noblest architects that theworld ever produced had already appeared, and produced specimens of anew and characteristic style, unsurpassed by any other efforts. Imolawas surrounded by villas, but there was one more costly and extensivethan any of the rest, which hung upon the hill-side, with gardens, andterraces, and fountains round about. The villa now belonged to Ramirod'Orco, and thither he would often retire, after the labours of theday were over, to walk, solitary and thoughtful, as was his wont,under the great stone-pines which lined the avenue.
It was the favourite home of Leonora; for, though she was so muchchanged in every habit, if not in every thought, there was oneexception--she still loved to sit beneath the trees or upon a terrace,whence she could see over a wide landscape. She no longer soughtabsolute solitude, it is true; she suffered herself not to be plungedinto those deep fits of thought, which had been her only comfortduring Lorenzo's long absence at Naples. Usually she had one of hermaids with her, well-educated girls, who could converse, though notvery profoundly; and their light talk, though it did not always weanher mind from the subjects on which it was bent, just sufficed toripple the too still waters of meditation.
She was thus seated one afternoon, just in the beginning of theautumn, in an angle of the gardens, whence she could see on all sidesaround but one, with a girl named Carlotta at her feet. If there beaught on earth which deserves the name of divine, it is the weather insome parts of Italy when the summer has lost its full heat, and theautumn knows nothing yet of wintry chill, when the grape is justbeginning to grow purple, and the cheek of the fig looks warm. Suchwas that day, and it would seem that the balmy influence of the airand the brightness of the scene had their influence upon poor Leonora,bringing back some of the gaiety and sportiveness of other years.
"So, foolish Carlotta," said her mistress, "you must needs go down tothe dusty town this morning--to see your lover, I warrant, and arrangefor this wedding I have heard of."
Carlotta blushed and smiled, and said "Ay;" and her mistress gave hera tap upon the cheek, exclaiming--
"Out upon you, silly girl! can you not be content without makingyourself a slave?"
"It is woman's nature, lady," replied the girl; "we all like to beslaves to those we love. I do believe that there is no woman who doesnot wish to marry; and do you know, lady, that people wonder that youhave never given your hand to any one."
"I!" exclaimed Leonora, with a start, and an expression almost of painupon her face; "I marry any one! I wish to marry any one! to be thepassive plaything of a rude boor--to be sported with at his will andpleasure--to have the sanctity of my chamber invaded by a coarse man!When I think of it, I cannot but marvel that any woman, with thefeelings of a woman, can so degrade herself."
"The feelings of the woman prompt her, lady," said Carlotta; "but, doyou know, I saw a man at Mother Agostina's--that is, my Bernardino'saunt--a courier just returned from France, and he told me that all thepeople there say that you are married."
"More likely to be buried, my Carlotta," replied Leonora; "but whathave the people of France to do with me?"
"Why, they seem to have a great deal to do with Italy now," rejoinedthe girl. "Since the pope's son has been to the place they callChinon, and has been made Duke of Valentinois by the new King ofFrance, that monarch seems to be as much pope in Rome as the HolyFather himself. Have you not heard, lady, that a whole crowd ofFrenchmen--lords and knights, and such like--are coming over with somechosen troops to help Alexander and the new duke to make up a greatduchy here in Italy for him who used to be a cardinal, and who is nowa soldier?"
"No, I have heard nothing of it," replied Leonora; "doubtless myfather has, if the gossip be true."
"Oh! it is quite true, lady," replied the girl; "all was inpreparation when Giacomo came away, and, besides, at the King ofFrance's desire, the pope has made one of these young lords Prefect ofRomagna. But he is Italian by birth, they say, and a cousin of theKing of France, and brings his beautiful young wife with him."
Leonora rose from her seat and gazed into the girl's eyes for a momentin silence, with a look that almost frightened poor Carlotta. "Did youhear his name?" she asked, at length.
"It was Lorenzo something," replied the girl; "Visconti, I think."
Leonora turned away abruptly, and with a quick step climbed the hill,entered the villa, and sought her own apartments. She passed throughthe ante-room, and through that where her maids sat embroidering,without speaking a word, and entering her own chamber, cast herselfdown upon her bed and wept.
"Fool! fool! fool that I am!" she cried, at length, starting up. "Ithought I had torn it out by the roots; but it is there still."
She drew the dagger, in its sheath of velvet and gold, from her bosom,gazed at it for a moment and murmured,
"Only this, or what this gives, can root it out; but no, no, I am notmad. This will all pass away. I will conquer it now--even now. I mayhave to see him again! Then I will look upon him now, as he was when Ibelieved him faithful and true, as he was when he seemed all that wasnoble and just," and, opening a drawer in the table, she took forth asmall, beautiful gilded frame, in the centre of which appeared thesketch of Lorenzo which had been drawn by Leonardo da Vinci. "Ah!picture," she said, gazing at it, "how often hast thou been my comfortand solace in other hours--ay, even to the last; for who could gazeupon that noble face and think the soul so base! Lorenzo! Lorenzo! youhave made my misery! Pray God that you have not made your own too.What has become of good Leonardo's auguries? what of his dream, thatby the features you could read the spirit? But it matters not. I willsteel myself to meet you, should you come--to gaze upon this fair wifeyou have preferred to Leonora, and who, men say, is so light, and sounworthy of the man I thought you. Perhaps she may suit you betterthan I should have done; for God knows she cannot be more fickle thanyou are. Yes, the momentary madness is passing away. I shall soon bemyself again, and will play my part to the end, let it be what itmay."
"Madam, a cavalier below desires to see you," said a servant, openingthe door abruptly. Leonora started with a look almost of terror, forher mind was so full of one object that she thought the stranger couldbe no other than Lorenzo; but the servant went on: "He says his nameis Leonardo da Vinci, and that you know him."
"This is strange," said Leonora to herself; and then turning to theman she added, "take him to my own saloon, and see that he and hisservants be well cared for. I will be down in a few moments."
She washed away the marks of tears from her eyes, brushed smooth herhair, and then descended the short flight of steps which led as aprivate way from her chamber to the gorgeous room below, which wasknown and held sacred as her own saloon. She found the great painterstanding in the midst, and gazing at some fine pictures whichornamented the walls.
"Welcome, signor," she said--"most welcome to Imola. No other housemust be your home while you are here than this, or my father's palacein the citadel."
"Your pardon, bright lady," said Leonardo, gazing at her, "my home isever an inn, and I cannot sacrifice my liberty even to you."
"You are wise, maestro," answered Leonora, somewhat gravely. "No manshould sacrifice his liberty to a woman, nor any woman to a man. It isa new creed I have got, but I think it is a good one."
"Old creeds are best," replied Leonardo, seriously. "We can advancefrom one to another, as we ca
n mount the steps of a temple to the holyof holies, but each step must be founded upon that which went before,and each must rest upon truth."
"Alas! where shall we find truth?" asked Leonora; and then she added,in a melancholy but sweet tone, "Let us not approach painful subjects,my good friend. We cannot meet without thinking of them. If we speakof them we shall think of them still more. I know that truth is in myown heart--where else I know not."
"Perhaps where you least think," replied the painter; "but you areright, lady. Could it do any good, I might speak even of the mostpainful things; but where the irrevocable seal is fixed it is vain toexplain--vain to regret. You are as beautiful as ever, I see, but withthat change which change of thought and feeling brings. I have come topaint your picture; and I can paint it now better than I could when welast met."
"Indeed! How so?" asked Leonora.
"Because it is easier to paint matter than spirit--angel or demon, asthe case may be--which, transfusing itself through the whole frame,breathes from the face and animates every movement. Again, at othertimes, it leaves the human tenement vacant, or sits retired in acorner of the heart, pondering the bitterness of life. Mere animallife then acts and carries us through the business of existence; butthe sentient, feeling soul is dead or entranced, and pervades not theface or limbs with that varying beauty which is so difficult for thepainter to seize and to transfer. I can paint you better now thanformerly; and the painting to the common eye will be more beautiful,but to mine and to the poet's there may be a lack of something--ofthat expression of soul which the features require for harmony--andyet it is not entirely wanting. When you first came in, there was arigidity about your look, as if you mastered some emotion. Now thereis more light, as if there were emotion still. You must have sufferedagitation lately. Forgive me. I am a rough, plain-spoken man, too aptto give counsel where it is not sought, and to note feelings peoplewould wish concealed."
"You see too deeply and too well," replied Leonora; "but still I say,maestro, let us not converse on such things. The past is dead. Thepresent, alas! has no life in it for me. Emotion is the most transientof all things with me. Like a stone dropped by a boy into a stilllake, it may go deep but ripples the surface only for a moment, andall is still again. If you wish my portrait, take it; but let not ourthoughts be saddened while the work is beneath your hand by memoriesof other days, when happiness gave that spirit to my face which, asyou judge rightly, has departed for ever. Let us talk of art, ofscience--what you will, in short; for I have studied much since lastwe met, and can encounter you with more knowledge, but not lesshumility; but let us speak no more of buried feelings, the very ghostsof which bring fear and anguish with them."
"Alas! that it should be so, sweet lady," replied Leonardo; "but, sadas may be your fate, there may be others, seemingly more happy, whoare more miserable still.
"Nay, I am not miserable," she answered; but then, recollecting thekeen insight of the man she spoke to, she paused and added, "If I am,'tis but in fits. As an old wound, I am told, long healed, will smartwith a change of weather, so at times my heart will ache whensomething comes to weaken it. But enough of this, maestro. Look atthose pictures on the wall. Those three are by one hand, and that thehand of a youth. Are they not beautiful?"
"Nay, they are sublime," replied Leonardo. "Who is the painter? Hewill one day be one of the mighty men of his day."
"His name is Buonaroti Simoni," replied Leonora, "I brought them withme from Florence. My father has two more, which he will show you."
She thus changed the subject to one of colder interest; but whenLeonardo left her, some of his words lingered in her mind, and broughtback to her thoughts things which had better been forgotten.
"'Perhaps I might find truth where I least thought,'" said Leonora toherself. "Those were his words. What can he mean? 'There may be those,seemingly more happy, who are more miserable still.' There issomething beneath all this; but it is vain--vain--all vain. I willthink of it no more;" and yet she thought.