The Viper of Milan: A Romance of Lombardy

The Viper of Milan "Lovely in the midst of crime, And yet unlovely through excess of guilt, He dazzled through that dim-lit time, And noble blood for a vain shadow spilt." The Viper of Milan A ROMANCE OF LOMBARDY BY MARJORIE BOWEN

Illustration note

[Illustration: Decoration]

NEW YORK McCLURE, PHILLIPS & CO. MCMVI _Copyright, 1906, by_ McCLURE, PHILLIPS & CO. _To My Mother_ PUBLISHERS' PREFACE So long as man retains his reminiscent interest in the past of which he is the product, so long will he continue to take possession of that past for the purposes of imaginative expression. And so long shall we have the historical as that form of fiction which of all is perhaps the most potent and the most perennial in its fascination. It is significant that at this precise moment when the historical novel shows so much apparent exhaustion, that there should appear such an example as _The Viper of Milan_, which, while actually the latest of its class, might almost be the first, so free is it from any trace of fatigue or affectation. Here is a novel in which the author writes of the past with as much _sans-gêne_ as though she were writing of the present. She moves there so perfectly at home in the mind of her period that she does not need to note all those minor details which are its outer manifestation. She makes no attempt at an elaborate reconstruction of an epoch, but surrenders herself rather to that plastic spirit of an age which molds the souls of its men and women and makes them the channel of characteristic expression in thought, feeling and action. Actually, we know of no novel that gives a more concrete, vivid and brilliant impression of the Italy of the early Renaissance; but as a matter of fact there is a total absence of that set description which forms the staple of the ordinary historical novel. The method of the author is strictly dramatic and narrative, her story is given as exclusively as possible through dialogue and action. What description there is is wholly incidental, and there is never any slacking of the emotional tension, any interruption of the swift course of events for the sake of mere word-painting which, however gorgeous, is bound to be obtrusive. In all this, of course, Miss Bowen receives some assistance, some inspiration, as it were, from that particular phase of the past with which she deals. It would be difficult for anyone to write of Italy as it emerges from the Middle Ages without catching something in the narrative itself of that swift play of passion and impulse, of that tense, highly-wrought tendency to dramatic climax, which starts into life from the pages of the barest records of the period. And what a period it was! At the moment which Miss Bowen has chosen, Visconti, that sinister embodiment of the Lombard blend of Gothic vigor and Latin cruelty, holds the stage in Northern Italy. He has just vanquished Verona, seized Isotta d'Este and driven her husband, Della Scala, into exile. From that point we are shown in a series of swift scenes the coalition of the d'Estes under Della Scala against Visconti, the rapid triumph of this reaction up to a certain point, and then its equally rapid wasting under the assaults less of Milanese prowess than of Milanese treachery. The final isolation of Della Scala from his allies, and the supreme test to which his fidelity is subjected by the almost diabolic genius of Visconti, make one of the most superb climaxes with which we are familiar in romantic drama or in historical fiction. Nor does the author seem to fall short of the opportunity offered her for the vivid and moving portrayal of the great passions involved in so high an action. For many it will constitute the prime marvel of an extraordinary book that its author, a young girl of fifteen or sixteen, who knew nothing of Italy, or of the Italian character, save, through books, could have conceived and written it. But if we grant the extraordinary precocity of talent implied in the mere writing of such a book as _The Viper of Milan_, it is, perhaps, less remarkable than it at first appears that Miss Bowen should have been so successful in grasping the purely Italian side of her subject, in rendering the Italian psychology. For is not youth the Italian age of life? Is there not something in the ardent dreams and in the swift, uncontrollable impulses of young natures, that finds _itself_ in the spirit of that race which though the eldest is still the youngest race of Europe? The Italian soul, complex as it may appear upon the surface, is in essence simple. It is the soul of desire, of desire for the dream realized. Such is the desire even of a Visconti, and the soul of such a man makes him as simple to seize upon as the ogre of a fairy tale. A fairy tale!--historical novels are all fairy tales, or approximate to fairy tales, for the same reason, perhaps, that all the fairies, Puck, Oberon and the rest of them, were once people in history. Under all the complexity and confusion of man's mental life there lies the invincible demand for the simple and the absolute in his view of the past as of the universe. The scholar and the scientific historian seek to build up stone by stone, from the dust-heap of the ages, the intricate web of the past; but the historical novelist, closer to the imagination of the race, seeks rather to reproduce the past in its broad outlines, in its ideal aspects of sharply defined and sharply opposing forces. We hear much to-day of the death of the historical novel as a form of art. And this is because at its best to-day it has seemed a clever reconstruction of the past, a _pastiche_, as the French call it, a work of erudition, rather than an appropriation of the past for the purpose of effecting a romantic release from the uncompromising and prosaic conditions of the present. It is no wonder that the old romantic form of Scott and Dumas, being reduced to so lifeless a formula, should occasionally appear moribund. But it should be remembered that what proceeds from the mind, and is part of it, can always be renewed from the mind, and that forms in art are constantly being revitalized by some fresh creative impulse. And so often as there shall appear a writer like Miss Bowen capable of properly appraising the past, not as a shop stuffed with strange articles of attire and antiquities, but as a splendid stage set for the performance of a moving human drama, just so often will the historical novel renew its attraction over the minds of all men in new creations. CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I. GIAN GALEAZZO MARIA VISCONTI 3 II. "FRANCISCO" 15 III. THE HOSTAGE OF THE ESTES 25 IV. VALENTINE 35 V. THE PAINTER'S DAUGHTER 39 VI. THE RESCUE OF COUNT VON SCHULEMBOURG 51 VII. "GRAZIOSA'S BRACELET" 58 VIII. FOR A LADY'S GIFT 75 IX. THE RETURN OF THE DEAD 88 X. THE TURQUOISE GLOVES 99 XI. MASTINO DELLA SCALA 111 XII. GRAZIOSA'S LOVER 120 XIII. VALENTINE VISCONTI'S TOAST 133 XIV. THE TUMULT AT THE WESTERN GATE 144 XV. A PRISONER FROM MILAN 157 XVI. FOR A GAME OF CHESS 165 XVII. THE TERRORS OF THE NIGHT 172 XVIII. GIACOMO CARRARA'S REWARD 184 XIX. A SIGN FROM HEAVEN 190 XX. IN THE DUKE'S ABSENCE 199 XXI. THE DUKE'S RETURN 214 XXII. THE SECRET PASSAGE 226 XXIII. FOR LOVE OF AMBROGIO 231 XXIV. TREACHERY 238 XXV. IN CLOTH OF GOLD 243 XXVI. IN VISCONTI'S HANDS 255 XXVII. UNEQUAL ODDS 267 XXVIII. THE VIPER 272 XXIX. THE ORDEAL OF MASTINO DELLA SCALA 287 XXX. THE WEDDING 303 XXXI. THE PRIDE OF THE D'ESTES 314 XXXII. THE PRICE OF DISHONOR 327 XXXIII. THE STORM 334 XXXIV. AN INSTRUMENT OF GOD 344 The Viper of Milan CHAPTER ONE GIAN GALEAZZO MARIA VISCONTI It is a day in early summer, as beautiful as such days were in the Southern lands of 500 years ago. It is Italy steeped in golden sunlight which lies like a haze over the spreading view; the year 1360, when cities were beautiful and nature all-pervading. Here is Lombardy, spread like a garden in the hollow of the hills, ringed about with the purple Apennines, covered with flowers, white, yellow, purple, and pink. This wide road, one of the finest in Italy, winds from Milan to Brescia, its whole length through chestnut woods and plains covered with flowering myrtle. Primroses in great clusters border its sides, and from the midst of their delicate blooms spring the slender stems of poplar trees; these are red-gold, bursting into bloom against a tender sky; tufts of young green; clumps of wild violets. But for all its unspoiled beauty, the road was one of common use, for Milan was within hail. Villas, the summer dwellings of its wealthy peers, stood back among the trees, surrounded by magnificent grounds. Behind them beautiful open country spread into the blue distance, fragrant and glorious with budding trees. And cold and magnificent the great city itself, with its huge walls and gates, crowned and emphasized the landscape's beauty. The lines of hundreds of turrets and spires, bold and delicate, leaped up against the sky. And paramount, catching the eye with color, weighing on the mind with meaning, were the city's banners. They floated from the gates and the highest buildings, half a score of them, all with the same device. Far off could that device be read: a green Viper on a silver ground: the emblazonment of the Visconti. From afar the city was a vision of stately splendor, and the low dwellings clustered round about her walls, in the shadow of the palaces, appeared to the nearing traveler but a touch added of the picturesque. A close survey, however, revealed semi-ruined huts; in their foul neglect and unsightliness, a blot upon the scene. They were homes of peasants, who, tattered and miserable, starved and unwashed, seemed their fitting occupants. Here comes a band of them slowly dragging along the road toward Milan, men, women, and children, leading a few rough-haired mules, laden with scanty country produce. It was poor stuff, and a poor living they made at it. The wealthy grew their own fruit and vegetables, the poorer could not afford to buy. Crushed by hopeless oppression into a perpetual dull acceptance, the crowd trudged along, with shuffling feet and bent heads, unheeding the beauty and the sunshine, unnoticing the glory of the spring, with dull faces from which all the soul had been stamped out, and "fear" writ large across the blank. Every movement showed them slaves, every line in their bent figures told they lived under a rule of terror, too potent for them to dare even to raise their eyes to question. A stream of gray and brown monotony along the glorious road, decked with the fairest beauty of fair Italy, these miserable peasants were strangely out of keeping, both with the radiant blossoming country and the magnificent city they drew near. Keeping close behind them walked a young man and a boy, better attired