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indeed.

      But now that we know what manner of man was this who wept, see how different is the inference that we may draw from his sorrow. Can we still imagine it—as we are desired to do—to have sprung from a lofty, Christian piety? Let us track those tears to their very source, and we shall find it to be compounded of rage and fear.

      Ferrante saw trouble ahead of him with Lodovico Sforza, concerning a matter which shall be considered in the next chapter, and not at all would it suit him at such a time that such a Pope as Alexander—who, he had every reason to suppose, would be on the side of Lodovico—should rule in Rome.

      So he had set himself, by every means in his power, to oppose Roderigo’s election. His rage at the news that all his efforts had been vain, his fear of a man of Roderigo’s mettle, and his undoubted dread of the consequences to himself of his frustrated opposition of that man’s election, may indeed have loosened the tears of this Ferrante who had not even wept at the death of his own children. We say “may” advisedly; for the matter, from beginning to end, is one of speculation. If we leave it for the realm of fact, we have to ask—Were there any tears at all? Upon what authority rests the statement of the Florentine historian? What, in fact, does he say?

      “It is well known that the King of Naples, for all that in public he dissembled the pain it caused him, signified to the queen, his wife, with tears—which were Unusual in him even on the death of his children—that a Pope had been created who would be most pernicious to Italy.”

      So that, when all is said, Ferrante shed his kingly tears to his wife in private, and to her in private he delivered his opinion of the new Pontiff. How, then, came Guicciardini to know of the matter? True, he says, “It is well known”—meaning that he had those tears upon hearsay. It is, of course, possible that Ferrante’s queen may have repeated what passed between herself and the king; but that would surely have been in contravention of the wishes of her husband, who had, be it remembered, “dissembled his grief in public.” And Ferrante does not impress one as the sort of husband whose wishes his wife would be bold enough to contravene.

      It is surprising that upon no better authority than this should these precious tears of Ferrante’s have been crystallized in history.

      If this trivial instance has been dealt with at such length it is because, for one reason, it is typical of the foundation of so many of the Borgia legends, and, for another, because when history has been carefully sifted for evidence of the “universal dismay with which the election of Roderigo Borgia was received” King Ferrante’s is the only case of dismay that comes through the mesh at all. Therefore was it expedient to examine it minutely.

      That “universal dismay”—like the tears of Ferrante—rests upon the word of Guicciardini. He says that “men were filled with dread and horror by this election, because it had been effected by such evil ways [con arte si brutte]; and no less because the nature and condition of the person elected were largely known to many.”

      Guicciardini is to be read with the greatest caution and reserve when he deals with Rome. His bias against, and his enmity of, the Papacy are as obvious as they are notorious, and in his endeavours to bring it as much as possible into discredit he does not even spare his generous patrons, the Medicean Popes—Leo X and Clement VII. If he finds it impossible to restrain his invective against these Pontiffs, who heaped favours and honours upon him, what but virulence can be expected of him when he writes of Alexander VI? He is largely to blame for the flagrant exaggeration of many of the charges brought against the Borgias; that he hated them we know, and that when he wrote of them he dipped his golden Tuscan pen in vitriol and set down what he desired the world to believe rather than what contemporary documents would have revealed to him, we can prove here and now from that one statement of his which we have quoted.

      Who were the men who were filled with dismay, horror, or dread at Roderigo’s election?

      The Milanese? No. For we know that Cardinal Ascanio Sforza, the Duke of Milan’s brother, was the most active worker in favour of Roderigo’s election, and that this same election was received and celebrated in Milan with public rejoicings.

      The Florentines? No. For the Medici were friendly to the House of Borgia, and we know that they welcomed the election, and that from Florence Manfredi—the Ferrarese ambassador—wrote home: “It is said he will be a glorious Pontiff” (“Dicesi che sará glorioso Pontefice”).

      Were Venice, Genoa, Mantua, Siena, or Lucca dismayed by this election? Surely not, if the superlatively laudatory congratulations of their various ambassadors are of any account.

      Venice confessed that “a better pastor could not have been found for the Church,” since he had proved himself “a chief full of experience and an excellent cardinal.”

      Genoa said that “his merit lay not in having been elected, but in having been desired.”

      Mantua declared that it “had long awaited the pontificate of one who, during forty years, had rendered himself, by his wisdom and justice, capable of any office.”

      Siena expressed its joy at seeing the summit of eminence attained by a Pope solely upon his merits—“Pervenuto alla dignitá pontificale meramente per meriti proprii.”

      Lucca praised the excellent choice made, and extolled the accomplishments, the wisdom, and experience of the Pontiff.

      Not dismay, then, but actual rejoicing must have been almost universal in Italy on the election of Pope Alexander VI. And very properly—always considering the Pontificate as the temporal State it was then being accounted; for Roderigo’s influence was vast, his intelligence was renowned, and had again and again been proved, and his administrative talents and capacity for affairs were known to all. He was well-born, cultured, of a fine and noble presence, and his wealth was colossal, comprising the archbishoprics of Valencia and Porto, the bishoprics of Majorca, Carthage, Agria, the abbeys of Subiaco, the Monastery of Our Lady of Bellefontaine, the deaconry of Sancta Maria in Via Lata, and his offices of Vice-Chancellor and Dean of Holy Church.

      We are told that he gained his election by simony. It is very probable that he did. But the accusation has never been categorically established, and until that happens it would be well to moderate the vituperation hurled at him. Charges of that simony are common; conclusive proof there is none. We find Giacomo Trotti, the French ambassador in Milan, writing to the Duke of Ferrara a fortnight after Roderigo’s election that “the Papacy has been sold by simony and a thousand rascalities, which is a thing ignominious and detestable.”

      Ignominious and detestable indeed, if true; but be it remembered that Trotti was the ambassador of France, whose candidate, backed by French influence and French gold, as we have seen, was della Rovere; and, even if his statement was true, the “ignominious and detestable thing” was at least no novelty. Yet Guicciardini, treating of this matter, says: “He gained the Pontificate owing to discord between the Cardinals Ascanio Sforza and Giuliano di San Pietro in Vincoli; and still more because, in a manner without precedent in that age [con esempio nuovo in quella etá] he openly bought the votes of many cardinals, some with money, some with promises of his offices and benefices, which were very great.”

      Again Guicciardini betrays his bias by attempting to render Roderigo’s course, assuming it for the moment to be truly represented, peculiarly odious by this assertion that it was without precedent in that age.

      Without precedent! What of the accusations of simony against Innocent VIII, which rest upon a much sounder basis than these against Alexander, and what of those against Sixtus IV? Further, if a simoniacal election was unprecedented, what of Lorenzo Valla’s fierce indictment of simony—for which he so narrowly escaped the clutches of the Inquisition some sixty years before this date?

      Simony was rampant at the time, and it is the rankest hypocrisy to make this outcry against Alexander’s uses of it, and to forget the others.

      Whether he really was elected by simony or not depends largely—so far as the evidence available goes—upon what we are to consider as simony. If payment in the literal sense was made or promised, then unquestionably simony there was. But this, though

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