The Duchess of Trajetto Part 10

CHAPTER X.

VITTORIA DI COLONNA.

"Vittoria e 'l nome; e ben conviensi a nata Fra le vittorie, ed a chi, o vada o stanzi, Di trofei sempre e di trionfi ornata, La Vittoria abbia seco, o dietro o innanzi.

Questa e un' altra Artemisia, che lodata.

Fu di pieta verso il suo Mausolo; anzi Tanto maggior, quanto e piu a.s.sai bel opra Che por _sotterra_ un nom, trarlo _di sopra_."

Ariosto. _Orlando_, x.x.xvii., 18.

Costanza, the young and beautiful d.u.c.h.ess of Francavilla, had, at the beginning of the century, the fortress of the little island of Ischia committed to her charge. This young widow had sense, goodness, courage, rare prudence, energy, and fidelity; or Ischia, the key of the kingdom, and more than once a royal asylum, would never have been entrusted to her keeping.

She was not only guardian of the castle and island, but of her infant brother, Ferdinand, Marquis of Pescara. In his fifth year, the little fellow was betrothed to the baby Vittoria Colonna, of the same age, who was thenceforth consigned to the d.u.c.h.ess Costanza, to be educated with her future husband; and the little _promessi sposi_ might be seen straying about together, hand in hand, sharing their sweetmeats and play-things, and now and then having a little fight.

"Let dogs delight," however, was so strenuously inculcated by the d.u.c.h.ess, that reciprocal forbearance soon cemented their affections. The Marquis was taught that he must reserve kicks and blows for his future enemies, and Vittoria that she must learn to bind up wounds rather than inflict them. And so they chased b.u.t.terflies, gathered flowers, and hunted for strawberries together, themselves the prettiest blossoms that ever floated on summer air.

"Ah, lovely sight! behold them,--creatures twain, Hand in hand wandering thro' some verdant alley, Or sunny lawn of their serene domain, Their wind-caught laughter echoing musically; Or skimming, in pursuit of bird-cast shadows, With feet immaculate the enamelled meadows."

"Tiptoe now stand they by some towering lily, And fain would peer into its snowy cave; Now, the boy bending o'er some current chilly, She feebler backward draws him from the wave, But he persists, and gains for her at last Some bright flowers, from the dull weeds hurrying past."[12]

[12] Aubrey de Vere. "A Tale of the Olden Time."

And thus the little betrothed led charmed lives, sporting and caressing, in the intervals of learning hymns and legends and listening to the d.u.c.h.ess's fairy tales.

She also taught them a good deal of history by word of mouth, so that they came to be quite as conversant with Romulus and Remus, Curtius and Horatius Cocles, as with giants and dwarfs. Then came the conning of the criss-cross row, duly followed by the Latin accidence, each rivalling and yet helping the other. Learned tutors and gifted artists gave the d.u.c.h.ess their aid; and thus the tranquil days glided on till they were nineteen; the bloodshed and anarchy which distracted unhappy Italy never troubling this charmed islet.

Bishop Berkeley said of Ischia, in a letter to Pope: "'Tis an epitome of the whole earth! containing within the compa.s.s of eighteen miles a wonderful variety of hills, vales, rugged rocks, fruitful plains, and barren mountains, all thrown together in most romantic confusion. The air is, in the hottest season, constantly refreshed by cool breezes from the sea; the vales produce excellent wheat and Indian corn, but are mostly covered with vineyards, interspersed with fruit trees. Besides the common kinds, as cherries, apricots, peaches, &c., they produce oranges, limes, almonds, pomegranates, figs, water-melons, and many other fruits unknown in our climate, which lie everywhere open to the pa.s.senger. The hills are the greater part covered to the top with vines; some with chesnut groves, and others with thickets of myrtle and lentiscus."

During this interval, Pescara had grown up into a strikingly handsome and interesting youth. His hair, says Giovio, was auburn, his nose aquiline, his eyes large and expressive; alternately flas.h.i.+ng with spirit and melting with softness. Vittoria wors.h.i.+pped him; and this was so artlessly manifest that Pescara grew a little arrogant upon it. She was a lovely blonde, with regular features, blue eyes, and hair of that tint which Petrarch described as "chioma aurata," and which Galeazzo da Tarsia, one of her poet-lovers, called "trecce d'oro." The Spanish painter, Francesco d'Olanda, spoke of her rare beauty; and Michael Angelo felt its powerful though innocent spell when, after their tender leave-taking on her death-bed, he regretted that he had not kissed her cheek instead of her hand.

Vittoria's father, in spite of his grand, historic name, was but a condottiere or captain of free lances, whose business and pleasure consisted in bloodshed and rapine. He dwelt perched up in an old ancestral castle overlooking a gloomy little walled town on a steep hill-side, from whence he and his men would now and then sweep down to devastate the property of his neighbours, much in the style of our own border chiefs. It was his son Ascanio, Vittoria's brother, who made war on Giulia, and seized her castles.

Thus, Vittoria, the daughter and sister of fighting men, was ready to admire and sympathize in the martial ardour of Pescara, which would have had something respectable in it, had any one fought in those days for any grand principle.

At nineteen, the betrothed were married. Of course there was much rejoicing, much feasting; chroniclers record the homages Vittoria received from rich relations, in the shape of diamond crosses, diamond rings, "twelve golden bracelets," &c., and recount the crimson velvet gowns fringed with gold, the flesh-coloured silk petticoats trimmed with black velvet, the purple brocaded mantles and so forth, composing her wardrobe, which doubtless exemplified the height of the fas.h.i.+on of the time.

After the great stir was a great calm: two years ensued of perfect married happiness. Then the young Marquis was summoned to the field; nor did Vittoria seek to withhold him from the call to arms. The King of Spain was also King of Naples, so of course Pescara fought on the Spanish side: but the French were victorious at Ravenna, where he was taken prisoner, after receiving some wounds in the face, which, the d.u.c.h.ess of Milan told him, only made him the better-looking.

He charmed his captivity by addressing to his wife a Dialogue on Love, full of the studied conceits of the time. Vittoria sent him a poetical epistle, full of tenderness and cla.s.sicality. Playing on her own name, she said:--"Se Vittoria volevi, io t'era appresso. Ma tu, lasciando me, lasciasti lei."

"If victory was what you wanted, _I_ was by your side. But, leaving _me_, you lost _her_."

One day, when she was with tearful eyes, inditing a sonnet to him, lo, Pescara himself suddenly stood before her! He had been released on paying a heavy ransom: she looked on him as "un gran capitano."

Before their happiness could pall, he was off again, to win new laurels.

He had, indeed, bravery worthy of some good cause; but he was a stern, inflexible commander: and in doing justice, he sometimes lost sight of mercy.

Pescara supplied his wife with an occupation during his absence, by sending her a young boy to educate; a little cousin of his own, the Marquis del Vasto; beautiful as a Cupid, but the naughtiest little Turk!

In a little while, Vittoria could guide him with a rein of silk. It is excellent woman's work to train boys. It is well to talk to them and listen to them a good deal; tell them your own plans and air-castles; hear all about theirs; help them in little matters and get them to help you in yours; ask their opinion sometimes, and suggest rather than intrude your own. Long walks together inevitably lead to long talks: little things occur in which the boy may aid the woman as if he were a man; though it be but to help her across a brook or over a stile.

Del Vasto soon adored Vittoria, and as she was a good cla.s.sic, he feared her detection of false quant.i.ties, and yet would often come to her for help, sure of obtaining it. He burned to be a hero like Pescara: they both thought him quite up to Achilles. But Vittoria was to learn her idol was made of clay.

They met once more--they spent three days together, without knowing they were not to see each other again. He hurried back to take the lead in a brilliant but cruel campaign. It included the battle of Pavia. Robertson calls Pescara the ablest and most enterprising of the Imperial generals; and certainly he divided with Lannoy the merit of this victory, which caused the captivity of two kings, and changed the fate of Europe.

Pescara thought himself injured, in having Francis the First taken out of his hands; and his known pique on the subject made a certain political party, with the Pope for its real, and a man named Morone for its ostensible head, think they might perhaps detach him from the Spanish interest--in other words, make a traitor of him.

In an evil hour, Pescara listened. Where was the pure, lofty influence of his wife at that moment? She was far away, believing in his unstained honour. A fatal letter was written by him, yielding to the tempter's snares, and entrusted to a messenger named Gismondo Santi.

This man, lodging at a low hostelry on his journey, was murdered by the landlord, and buried under his staircase. As no tidings, consequently, were heard of the unfortunate emissary, Pescara concluded he had turned traitor (like his master) and carried his despatches to the Emperor.

Fancy his feelings.

Oh, for Vittoria! Oh that she had been with him at first!--oh! that she were with him now! As he clasped his strong hands over his burning eyes, and strove to think, he seemed to see her, sitting at her writing-table, pensively gazing at his miniature, and then at the crucifix above it, with a prayer for him on her lips--a prayer that he might be surrounded by an atmosphere of sanct.i.ty and safety.

After crowning such a brilliant campaign by winning the battle of Pavia, should he end by dying a disgraced man?--a convicted traitor, like De Bourbon, with, perhaps, the felon death that De Bourbon had escaped? And all for what? What dust and ashes the Evil One gives us to drink!

Just then, a courier, hot with haste, brought him a letter--it was from Vittoria. Too agitated to disentangle gently the tress of her fair hair knotted round it, he cut it with his dagger, and devoured rather than read it.

Some bird of the air had carried the matter!--she had heard of the plot!

No Lady Macbeth was Vittoria, to urge her husband on to guilt--she was his guardian angel, and wrote, with infinite trouble and anxiety, to implore him to think of his. .h.i.therto unstained character, and to weigh well what he was about, declaring to him that she had no desire to be the wife of a king, but only of a loyal and upright man.

This letter decided Pescara as to his course. He wrote a full confession to the Emperor, who certainly owed him small thanks for it, seeing he believed him to know all already; and the confederates he compromised owed him still less. Pescara was too deep in the mire now, to come out unstained. He returned to his allegiance to the Emperor, but he betrayed his friends, his tempters, accomplices, or whatever name we may give them. The Pope, of course, was above danger; but Morone fell into a regular trap laid for him.

Vittoria, far away in her little island, would only hear as much as Pescara chose to tell her, and in his own way. She would suppose his character unscathed, his possession of imperial favour undiminished, since he was shortly afterwards made generalissimo of the forces.

Suddenly his health broke down. No one could say why, unless the slight wounds he had received at Pavia had injured him more than was supposed.

A troubled mind, probably, was at the root of his mortal sickness.

And so, in the prime of life, and loaded with honours, he found all earthly things receding from his grasp, and death hovering in view. In great anguish he sent for Vittoria, begging her to come quickly. She started instantly with all speed, and had travelled as far northwards as Viterbo, when she was met by the news of his death.

Thus closed their life's romance. And if she had breathed her last on his grave, she would only be known to us, if known at all, as a constant, affectionate woman. Instead of which, she lived to immortalise his memory in n.o.ble verse, to exemplify by her life a rare purity, constancy, intelligence, and devotion, and then to dedicate her pen to the loftiest themes that an evangelical faith could consecrate. No mere idyls or love-verses: her poems are full of deep thought and profound piety.

This was the Vittoria, perhaps the most distinguished lady in Italy, whom Giulia Gonzaga, her cousin by marriage, found at Naples, listening to the preaching of Bernardino Ochino.

Del Vasto, her boy pupil, was now arrived at man's estate, and her dearest friend. He was married to Maria d'Aragona, the greatest beauty of the day. Like Pescara, he was destined to die early.

CHAPTER XI.

VALDeS AND OCHINO.

Evening was closing on Naples and Pausilippo--bright, serene, odoriferous. The sea spread its azure surface as smooth as gla.s.s--many a lateen sail was extended to the grateful breeze. The universal hum of a talkative city was continually broken by whoop and halloo, scream and laughter, s.n.a.t.c.h of song or the sound of some stringed or wind instrument. Now and then a church bell fell musically and mournfully on the ear.

A grave signor sat pensively at a table, with an open book before him.

He was the true type of a Castilian hidalgo; tall, spare, with long, narrow face, cla.s.sically cut features, the eyes almond-shaped and very dark, lighted as if from within: the face oval, the beard pointed, the skin clear olive, the brow high and pale.