CHAPTER V

VITTORIA COLONNA

WHENEVER we consider the life of great men to whom a place of honor has been given in the history of humanity, we find that the psychological moment of their career coincides with their first meeting with a power almost equal to their own with a kindred spirit capable of appreciating and discussing the higher problems of life and art. No words can describe their intense satisfaction at having found at last a being by whom they are understood, with whom they can converse without having to explain phrases or sentiments, the deficiency of speech being supplemented by the fulness of thought. There is no greater desire than that of meeting such a congenial mind, no greater happiness than having found it, no greater sorrow than to part from it. Hermann Grimm, speaking of this psychological moment in the life of Michelangelo, quotes the instances of the friendship between Goethe and Schiller and between Byron and Shelley, adding that no such equal-minded friend was granted to Dante, Shakespeare, or Beethoven; but to my mind the great men have found the long-sought-for happiness only when the ideal woman has stepped across their path. We cannot conceive the greatness of Dante without Beatrice, of Petrarch without Laura, of Raphael without Margherita, of Tasso without Eleonora, and for the same reason we cannot separate Michelangelo from the sweet and noble figure of Vittoria Colonna.

Born in 1490, the daughter of Prince Fabrizio on

whom the dignity of Constable of Naples had just been conferred by Ferdinand the Catholic — and of Agnesina di Montefeltro, betrothed from childhood to Francis Ferdinand d' Avalos, marquess of Pescara, she married this young and gallant leader of armies at the age of seventeen. Tradition connects these early events of her life with the castle and township of Marino, where she is said to have spent her honeymoon. No more ideal place could have been chosen by the bride for her retreat after the nuptial ceremony than this picturesque stronghold, from which the Colonna family still derives its ducal title. Conversant as she was with the Latin and Greek languages, we can picture her taking solitary walks in the wooded glen, I still called the Parco dei Colonna, watered by the Aqua Ferentina, where the various tribes of the Latin confederacy used to hold their assemblies in the early days of Rome. And in following the path by the brook towards its springs her thoughts may have wandered back to the tragic fate of Turnus Herdonius, the chieftain of Aricia, who was drowned at the "Caput aquae Ferentinae" by order of Tarquinius Superbus, and also to the great meeting of the confederates which preceded the battle of Lake Regillus. These springs are still rising in a clear volume at the base of a great mass of rock crowned with evergreens, and there are rustic and mossgrown seats around, which seem to invite the visitor to rest in solitude, and to recall the events of the past.

Vittoria, besides her knowledge of classic literature, wrote with equal grace in Italian prose and verse. Her poems were first printed at Parma in 1538, under the title of "Rhymes of the divine Vittoria Colonna," which title, however exaggerated, bears testimony to the great veneration in which she was held even in her lifetime by her countrymen. The poetical vein with which she was gifted was no less

View of the village of Marino, the birthplace of Vittoria Colonna

captivating to them than the grace of her person; because in those happy days of the first quarter of the sixteenth century no one could shine in society unless he was a follower of the muses. Every one indulged in rhymes: a pious cardinal like Bembo, a grave historian like Giovio, a spirited warrior like Julius II, an artist like Michelangelo. Vittoria wrote also a pamphlet on the "Passion of the Redeemer," printed at Bologna in 1557, which, owing to the search made for it by the dreaded Court of the Inquisition at the time of Paul IV, has now become a bibliographical curiosity.

The first parting between bride and groom was caused in 1511 by the outbreak of war on the part of the Holy Alliance, formed by the republic of Venice, Pope Julius II, and King Ferdinand the Catholic, to drive King Louis XII out of Italy. The beginning of the campaign was not favorable to the marquess of Pescara, he having fallen into the hands of the French leader, Gaston de Foix, at the battle of Ravenna (1512). A few years later, however, he took his revenge on the plains of Pavia, where the French were utterly defeated and their leader and king, Francis I, was made a prisoner of war. Alas! the news of such great

achievements did not bring joy to the heart of Vittoria. As Gaston de Foix had paid for the victory of Ravenna with his own life, so the victory of Pavia was destined to put an end to Pescara's career. The young hero lingered some time after the battle, under the tender nursing of his wife, but his wounds were of too serious a nature to be healed by human skill. He died at Milan on the night of December 2, 1525, in a palace near the church of San Nazaro, by the Porta Romana, which he had bought of Giangiacomo Trivulzio two years before the fatal battle. His will, written by the notary Caimi, an authentic copy of which is preserved in the Colonna archives at Rome, is a document of intense historical interest, which I believe has never been published. Pescara's body was transferred from Milan to Naples, and buried in the church of San Domenico Maggiore with stately ceremonies, as became the "generalissimo" of the armies of the Emperor Charles V.

After this cruel event, Vittoria, who had been left a widow in the prime of life, of beauty, and of personal attractions, vowed to keep herself faithful to the memory of the husband of whose help and love she had been so prematurely deprived. The sentiments which she cherished to the end of her life vindicate Pescara from the charges brought against him by several historians. He is accused of having plotted against Charles V, because the emperor had taken away from his keeping Francis I, his royal prisoner of war. He is accused, furthermore, of having betrayed to the emperor his fellow conspirators, and of having turned informer as soon as he discovered how little chance there was of carrying the conspiracy through. But if Pescara had really been a double traitor, the young widow would have behaved in a different way. We know that she led almost a monastic life, wandering from convent to convent, and

seeking comfort in seclusion. "It seems to me," she says in one of her plaintive sonnets, "that the sun has lost the brightness of its rays, that the stars are paling, the trees losing their mantle of verdure, the fields their flowers, the waters their purity, the breeze its freshness, since the one I loved has left me alone!" Such a manner of life, away from the daily intercourse of society, raised her religious feelings to a high strain, and prepared her to feel the influence of Juan Valdés, one of the most determined and least suspected promoters of reform in Italy, ,- so little suspected, in fact, that Pope Paul III had attached him to his own court. And yet the unfortunates who had listened to his exhortations, like Carnesecchi, were soon to be burned alive! Vittoria was introduced to Valdés by the duchess of Francavilla, and, like so many enlightened Italians of the period, she did not dream of doing wrong in listening to the denunciations of the reformer against the corruption of the Curia.

It may seem strange, but it is certainly a fact, that the Rome of Paul III was just as strong a centre of reforming tendencies as were Naples, Ferrara, Lucca, Bologna, and other such intellectual centres. One could have repeated with the poet, "Thy greatest enemy, O Rome, is at thy gates!" And yet these Italian advocates of the purification of the church were all zealous Catholics, and, far from considering themselves adversaries of the Holy See, they thought they were working for its final triumph. Their heresy, if I may use such a term, was altogether unconscious.

It was at this juncture that Vittoria met Michelangelo for the first time, and it seems that after such a long period of sorrow and solitude (1525-36) the pure and intellectual intercourse with the great man raised her spirits once more and made her life more cheerful. The following five