Giulia di Gonzaga, daughter of the Duke of Sabbionetta, was born somewhere about the beginning of the sixteenth century. She was one of a numerous and beautiful family, and, from her earliest infancy, the darling of all hearts. There must have been something charming about the dear little girl whose "vezzi e grazie," even from her cradle, were so extolled by dry annalists,[6] and whose riper graces were sung by Ariosto, Bernardo Tasso, Molza, Gandolfo Porrino, Claudio Tolomei, and all the noted poets of the day. A child who, from the nursery, kisses, sugar-plums, and petting could not spoil, her sweetness equally bore the test when promoted to the school-room, where, without any apparent trouble to herself, she outstripped her elder sisters, Paola, Ippolita, and Eleanora, in their studies, though they were none of them considered deficient. Enough, if not too much, praise was bestowed on the skill with which her pretty hands touched the lute and guided the embroidery needle. Children are quick to hear their own encomiums, though uttered under the breath.

She had scarcely grown to her full height, and left off being sent early to bed, when she was given in marriage to Vespasiano Colonna, Duke of Trajetto. He was forty, and crippled with the rheumatism, yet her parents thought it a suitable match. They told her he was good, generous, and indulgent, and so he proved. She liked him. She liked pleasing him, and tending him, and receiving his pleasant praises and smiles. He had a daughter by a former marriage, rather younger than herself, and he wished them to be friends; but Isabella was of a colder nature than Giulia. The Duke had a singular feeling towards his little bride. She was so good, so pure, that he shrank from her being contaminated by the pernicious influence of Italian society, such as it was in the sixteenth century, and resolved to seclude her from it as much as he could in the retirement which his infirm health rendered so grateful. But he did more than this, for he resolved that her mind should receive the highest culture, and thus possess resources in itself which should make retirement happy. And as he was a man of good parts and delightful conversation, affectionate, indulgent, and quietly humorous, it is not at all surprising, I think, that he captivated this young girl, and made her really love him.

This rendered more than tolerable her attendance on him as a nurse. He would not let her do anything really painful or wearisome, took care that she should have plenty of open-air exercise, and won her admiration of his patience and cheerfulness during his tedious decline.

When he died, in the year 1528, he left Giulia mistress of all his possessions in the Campagna, the Abruzzi, and the kingdom of Naples, and guardian of Isabella, whom he designed for the wife of Ippolito de' Medici, nephew of Pope Clement the Seventh.

Giulia soon felt the want of a male protector, for two of the Duke's kinsmen, Ascanio di Colonna and Napoleone Orsini, laid claim to the estates. The Pope substantiated her right to them, and the Emperor Charles the Fifth, then a young man of eight-and-twenty, commissioned her brother, Don Luigi, to put her in possession. Luigi, who was a brilliant soldier, paid his sister a hasty visit at Fondi; and before he left it, he and Isabella exchanged secret vows of affection.

When Ippolito de' Medici, with youth, good looks, and noble bearing to recommend him, was sent by the Pope to woo and win Isabella, he found the Duchess much more attractive; and when she remarked one day on something strange in his conduct, he spoke out at once, and said—

"Giulia, I care nothing for her—and I cannot but care for you!"

Thereon the Duchess was much offended, and said she should write to the Pope. Ippolito very stoutly refused to own himself at all wrong. Giulia's widowhood, he averred, had been long enough for the world to suppose that her hand might be sued for. The Pope would be well pleased to see him win the daughter, but infinitely more so at his obtaining the mother. Giulia very indignantly replied that no Pope on earth had, or should have, power to make her marry again, against her will. She was a free agent; she respected and cherished the memory of her dear Duke too much ever to give him a successor. The amaranth was her chosen emblem, and "Non moritura" her motto.

Ippolito here ventured to murmur something about disparity of years, which she instantly checked as the height of disrespect; and he then said all that could be said by a very clever man, really and deeply, and honestly in love; but the more he said, the less Giulia minded him, for the idea had possessed itself of her mind that he might not have found her so pre-eminently attractive but for the thirteen thousand ducats which her good Duke had added to her dowry of four thousand immediately after their marriage. Besides, she was extremely sensitive to the opinion of "everybody," and she pictured what "everybody" could say, if, after inviting Ippolito to her castle as the suitor of her step-daughter, she were to marry him herself. Moreover, she did not like the Medici; they were wonderfully clever, but they were not good. Volti sciolti, pensieri stretti—she would rather not trust her happiness to any one of them. Or to any one. Why should not she continue, free and happy as she was?

So Ippolito found her impenetrable to the most insinuating words and melting tones; and as she found him equally impracticable on the subject of being faithful, as she called it, to Isabella, though he denied having pledged any faith to her at all, Giulia told him very plainly she wished he would end his visit; which he, much hurt, said he would do. And his farewell bow was as stiff and stately as if he were an unsuccessful envoy to a warlike sovereign; and he went away without any leave-taking of Isabella.

Thereon, the Duchess, much fluttered and embarrassed, went to tell Isabella that Ippolito was gone; and Isabella, in her cold, dry way, said:

"Why?"

Then the Duchess said he had been talking very uncomfortably and unintelligibly: he seemed hardly inclined to fulfil his engagement. Then Isabella said:

"He need not trouble himself. I made no engagement with him."

Then the Duchess said:

"My dear Isabella! what can you be thinking of?"

"I am thinking," says Isabella, after a pause, "of Rodomonte."

"Possibile? che gioja!" cried the Duchess, embracing her.

Rodomonte was the pet name of Giulia's younger brother Luigi, already spoken of. If Isabella were inclined to marry him, her portion would be a famous thing for him. The only question was, would the Pope consent?

The Pope consented when he found Isabella would not have Ippolito at any rate, and when he learnt that Ippolito had good hope of securing the Duchess. So Luigi and Isabella were married, and Luigi was mortally wounded the following year in endeavouring to recover one of his sister's castles; and died recommending his widow and infant son to her care. Isabella afterwards married the Prince of Sulmona.

Ippolito now changed his tactics. When the Duchess had received him as the future husband of her step-daughter, she, not imagining their positions could be misunderstood, addressed him by his Christian name. Whereon he, not to be behindhand, and seeing that they were nearly of an age, immediately called her Giulia, and persisted in doing so in spite of hints and rebuking looks. Now that he had been charged with "disrespect," he resolved to try what the utmost deference could do; so he sent her a translation he had made (extremely well, too), of the second book of the Æneid, with the following dedication prefixed:

"Because that it often happens that one's woes are soothed by matching them with those that are greater, I, not finding for my pain any other remedy, have turned my mind to the burning of Troy; and, measuring my own wretchedness with that, have satisfied myself beyond doubt that no evil happened within its walls which I myself have not felt in the depths of my heart; the which, seeking in some degree to ease by thinking on Troy, I have thereby been enabled to understand. I therefore send you this, that it may give you a truer picture of my grief than my sighs, my tears, my pallid cheeks could ever impart."

The obdurate Giulia was not to be melted. She was more impenetrable than ever; and with good reason; having heard of a street fight in Rome, in which Ippolito had killed a man. It is true Ippolito said he had not meant it—he only meant to hurt him, and teach a lesson to a troublesome fellow. However that may be, the man was dead, and Ippolito was under a cloud for a while, till it blew over, according to the fashion of the times, and he could come out again with only the taint of justifiable homicide. He was a good deal quieted. He did not know what to do with himself, nor did the Pope (a very bad old man) know what to do with him or for him, since he would not or could not make his fortune by marriage. There was the mixture of fame and infamy in his lineage which pertained to but too many of the Medici, and he had not a penny that the Pope did not give him; so the only opening for him was in the Church. He gave him the Cardinal's hat.

A handsome, comfortable-looking cardinal was Ippolito, with very little token of care feeding on his damask cheek. You may see him, any time you like, in the National Gallery—there he is, pen in hand, at a table covered with a Persian carpet, having just signed a deed, apparently, to which Sebastian, the famous Venetian painter, has affixed the leaden seals, in virtue of his office as keeper of the Papal signet—whence his cognomen, Del Piombo. Note them: they are noteworthy men. Sebastian has put himself foremost; the Cardinal in the background. But the Cardinal takes it easily; he has a jolly, good-tempered face, black eyes, an aquiline nose, and black hair.

His relations with Giulia were a good deal altered by the cardinalate. She need no longer fear him as a suitor; she hoped his entering the Church was a sign of a changed heart; she revered his holy office, and gradually identified him with it. Once or twice, when affairs drew her to the Eternal City, she saw him take part in the grand pageantry; and when she heard Kyrie Eleison rolling and swelling through nave and aisle, and Veni Creator breathed like the whispers of angels in soul-subduing softness, and the Pope himself intoning the Te Deum,—her unsophisticated mind was deeply impressed; for Giulia was still, and all her life, as guileless as a little child; and herein, no doubt, lay the unexplained and unexplainable attraction about her. She was glad Ippolito had put an insuperable barrier between her and himself, because now she could enjoy his really delightful society, when they met, without alloy.

But they did not meet very often; and it was a good thing they did not, for Ippolito loved her as dearly as ever. It was a good thing they did not meet often, and yet it was a good thing they met sometimes, and that her influence continued to be felt by him, for it was the only good influence he had! Poor Ippolito, with all his sins, was much better than those who constantly surrounded him. The nearer from church, the farther from God, was awfully true of the Papal court; and if he sought refuge from men in books, as he continually did, they were the books of heathens, none the less anti-Christian and poisonous for being in Greek.

While the very ground seemed sinking under him, and all trust and hope in himself and others perishing, there came the news that Giulia was in danger, and had fled to the mountains to escape Barbarossa. Instantly his better nature awoke, and he flew to her succour.