Of the Italian courts, it was only those led by able women that left
a permanent fame. If they are associated with the names of great men
who gave them the halo of their own glory, it was women who made a
society for these men, inspired them, and centralized their influence.
Urbino was called the Athens of Italy. During the reign of the Duchess
Elisabetta it is safe to say that there was hardly a man of distinction
in the country, whether poet, artist, prelate, or statesman, who did
not find his way there sooner or later. It may be pleasant to dwell
a little on this brilliant court, which was the best and purest of
its time and furnished the model upon which the Hôtel de Rambouillet
was founded more than a century afterward. It was more fortunate than
others in having a chronicler. Count Castiglione left a graphic picture
of its personnel and amusements, as well as a record of some of its
conversations, so that we know not only the quality of the people who
met there, but what they thought, what they talked about, and what they
did. He gives us the best glimpse we have of the society and manners of
the golden age of the Renaissance.
But this atmosphere of culture and refinement was not made in a day.
It was largely due to the more or less gifted princesses who had
lived or ruled there for more than a hundred years. Far back toward
the beginning of the fifteenth century there was a Battista who was
distinguished for her piety, her talents, and her noble character. A
worthless husband drove her to seek refuge with her brother at Urbino,
where she solaced the wounds of her heart in writing sonnets and moral
essays on faith and human frailty, also in corresponding with scholars
and sending Latin letters to her father-in-law, a Malatesta, who had
fostered her literary tastes and evidently remained her friend. Her
daughter inherited her sorrows with her talents, and both closed
their lives, after the fashion of women to whom the world has not
been kind or has lost its charm, in the austerities of a convent. Her
granddaughter was Costanza Varana, a valued friend of philosophers
and men of learning; but she died early, leaving another Battista,
who was sent to Milan at four to be educated with her precocious
cousin Ippolita Sforza. The extraordinary gifts of this child have
already been mentioned, but she more than fulfilled her promise. At
fifteen, or earlier, she was married to Federigo, the great Duke of
Urbino, who shared the enthusiasm of the Medici in the revival of the
classics. This small duchess of vigorous intellect, much learning, and
strong character, was in full sympathy with her husband’s tastes, and
he speaks of her as “the ornament of his house, the delight of his
public and private hours.” If she could read Demosthenes and Plato,
and talk with the wisdom of Cicero, as one of her contemporaries tells
us, she was not spoiled for the practical duties of her position.
At an age when our school-girls are playing golf or conning their
lessons, she was prudently managing affairs of the State of which she
was regent in her husband’s absence. She was simple in manners, cared
little for dress, and put on her magnificent robes only for courtly
ceremonies to maintain the outward dignity of her place. At Rome she
was greatly honored by the Pope, whom she addressed in Latin, much to
his delight. But this beautiful, gifted, efficient, and adored woman
died at twenty-six, leaving seven children, a broken-hearted husband,
and a sorrowing people. The glories of her short, full life were sung
by poets, statesmen, and churchmen alike. She left the imperishable
stamp of intellect and taste on all her surroundings, and is of special
interest to us as the grandmother of Vittoria Colonna, in whom the
talent of generations found its consummate flower.
But the luminous period of Urbino was during the reign of her son, who
added to the martial qualities and manly accomplishments of his age,
remarkable talent, great learning, and a singularly gentle character.
This was the Duke Guidobaldo, who consoled his friends in his last
moments with lines from Vergil. His health was always delicate, and the
brilliancy of his court was due to his wife, the celebrated Elisabetta
Gonzaga, who had been reared in the scholarly air of Mantua, where
the daughters were educated with the sons. She found in her new home
standards of culture that had been set, as we have seen, by a long line
of princesses devoted to things of the intellect.
In its palmy days, the young Giuliano de’ Medici, son of the great
Lorenzo and brother of Leo X,--the one who was immortalized by
Michelangelo in the statue so familiar to the traveler in the Medicean
Chapel at Florence,--was living at Urbino during the exile of his
family. It was also the home of the “divine Bembo,” critic, Platonist,
arbiter of letters, finally cardinal, and one of the most famous men
of his time, though his claim to be called “divine” is not apparent.
The witty Mæcenas of this group was Bibbiena, poet, diplomat, man of
the world, a dilettante in taste and an Epicurean in philosophy, also
a cardinal and an aspirant for the papal throne. There were, too,
the Fregosos, men of strong intellect, many personal attractions, and
manly character, one of whom became the Doge of Genoa, and the other
a cardinal--with many others of fame and learning whose names signify
little to us to-day. By no means the least important member of the
household was Castiglione, the courtier and diplomat of classical
tastes and varied accomplishments, who has given us so pleasant a
glimpse of its sayings and doings. To this intellectual Mecca came,
from time to time, literary pilgrims from all parts of the world.
It was the special mission of the Duchess Elisabetta to fuse these
elements into a society that should be a model for other courts
and coming generations. Here lies her originality and her claim to
distinction. This clever princess, who loved her husband devotedly,
cared for the poor and sorrowing among her people, and had moral
convictions of her own as well as ideas, was well fitted for her
position. Without any pretension to genius, she had a clear,
discriminating mind, rare intelligence, great beauty, and gracious
manners. Her character had a fine symmetry, and she was equally
successful in directing her household, conversing with great men,
and holding the reins of government when her husband--a condottiere
by profession, like most of the smaller princes--was in the field
elsewhere. Surrounded by adorers in an age when indiscretions, even
sins, were easily forgiven, no breath of censure ever touched her
fair name. Her dignity and a reserve that verged upon coldness gave
a pure tone to her court. She permitted neither malicious gossip nor
heated talk, and required unsullied honor and exemplary conduct of her
friends. We might question the standards a little, as men at least were
privileged beings not to be too closely scrutinized.
In her social duties she had the efficient aid of Emilia Pia, the
duke’s sister-in-law, a woman of brilliant intellect and high
character, who had lost her husband in youth, and lived at Urbino. Of a
gayer turn, her ready wit and happy temperament, added to her knowledge
and personal fascination, made her the life of the house. Other and
younger ladies of well-known names and kindred tastes figure in its
diversions.
The magnificent old palace that overlooked the city from its
picturesque site among the hills was one of the finest in Italy. Its
stately rooms were filled with rare treasures of painting, sculpture,
mosaic, and costly furniture. There were exquisite decorations in
marble and tarsia, and the walls were draped with rich tapestries.
Raphael was a youth then, and no doubt his first dreams had been
of these beautiful things, among which he must have rambled. It is
likely, too, that he met here the friends who were of so much service
to him afterward at Rome, among them Bibbiena, to whose grandniece
he was betrothed. His father had painted some of the frescos, and was
a welcome visitor. Other artists were invited there, and added to the
glories of the famous pile. Among these surroundings of art and beauty,
with the traditions of culture that lay behind them, clever, thoughtful
women and brilliant men met evening after evening to talk of the
world and its affairs, of things light and serious, of love, manners,
literature, statecraft, and philosophy. When they tired of grave
themes, they amused themselves with allegories, playful badinage, witty
repartees, and devices of all sorts to stimulate the intellect. After
supper there was music and dancing, if the conversation did not last
until the morning hours. Sometimes they had their own plays acted in
the pretty little theater. It was here that Bibbiena’s famous comedy,
“Calandra,” with its gorgeous pagan setting and its curious blending of
love and mythology, of nymphs, Cupids, and goddesses, was first given
to an admiring world.
But we are most interested to-day in the conversations. Many evenings
were devoted to defining the character and duties of a courtier,
which differed little from those of a modern gentleman, except
in the exaggerated deference claimed to be due to a superior and
verging upon servility. It is more to the purpose here to touch
upon the discussions relating to women, as they furnish a key to
fifteenth-century manners which were the basis of all modern codes,
though to-day many of the best of their formulas are more conspicuous
in the breach than in the observance.
It was agreed that a lady must be gracious, affable, discreet, of
character above reproach, free from pride or envy, and neither vain,
contentious, nor arrogant. To speak of the failings of others, or
listen to reflections upon them, was taken as an indication that one’s
own follies needed a vindication or a veil. This model lady must dress
with taste, but not think too much about it, and she was forbidden to
dye her hair, or use cosmetics and other artificial aids to beauty. Her
personal distinction lay in an elegant simplicity, without luxury or
pretension. She must know how to manage her children and her fortune,
as well as her household; but she was expected to be versed in letters,
music, and the arts, also to be able to converse on any topic of
the day without childish affectation of knowledge which she did not
possess. Modesty, tact, decorum, and purity of thought were cardinal
virtues, and religion was a matter of course. Noisy manners, egotism,
and familiarity were unpardonable. Dignity, self-possession, and a
gentle urbanity were marks of good breeding. No license in language
was permitted, but we cannot help wondering what they called license.
Men, it must be added, could be about as wicked as they liked, and, if
history is to be trusted, many in high places were very wicked indeed.
The latitude of the best of them in speech would be rather embarrassing
to the sensitive woman of our time; but the days of the précieuses
had not dawned, and no one hesitated to call a spade a spade, even
if it were a very black one. Women might blush and be silent, but
further protest was set down as disagreeable prudery. Perhaps the frank
naturalism of the Latin races must be taken into account, as it often
quite unconsciously shocks our own more delicate tastes even to-day.
But it was conceded that no man was so bad as not to esteem a woman of
pure character and refined sensibilities.
These men and women who lived on the confines of two great centuries
and tried to introduce a finer code of manners and morals, touched also
on the equality of the sexes, a question which agitated that world as
it does our own. Some one asks, one evening, why women should not be
permitted to govern cities, make laws, and command armies.
Giuliano de’ Medici, who was an ardent champion of the dependent sex,
replies that it might not be amiss. Many of them he declares to be as
capable of doing these things as men, and he cites history to show that
they have led armies and governed with equal prudence. To a friend who
mildly suggests that women are inferior, he says that “the difference
is accidental, not essential,” adding that the qualities of strength,
activity, and endurance are not always most esteemed, even in men.
As to mind, “whatever men can know and understand, women can also;
where one intellect penetrates, so does the other.... Many have been
learned in philosophy, written poetry, practised law, and spoken with
eloquence.”
A gentleman of the party ungallantly remarks that women desire to be
men so as to be more perfect.
Giuliano wisely answers that it is not for perfection, but for liberty
to shake off the power that men assume over them. He says they are more
firm and constant in affection, as men are apt to be wandering and
unsettled. When asked to name women who are equal to men, he replies
that he is confounded by numbers, but mentions, among others, “Portia,
Cornelia, and Nicostrata, mother of Evander, who taught the Latins
the use of letters.” “Rome,” he adds, “owes its greatness as much to
women as to men.... They were never in any age inferior, nor are they
now.” He goes on to cite Countess Matilda, Anne of France, wife of two
kings in succession, and inferior to neither, Marguerite, daughter
of Maximilian, famed for prudence and justice, Isabella of Mantua,
singularly great and virtuous, with many other noted women of his
time. “If there are Cleopatras, there are multitudes of Sardanapali who
are much worse.”
The limits of this paper permit only the suggestion of a few points
in a long conversation which touched the subject on every side. It
was interspersed with thoughtful questions from the duchess, who did
not fail to interfere if it took too free a turn, also with brilliant
sallies of wit from Emilia Pia, and spicy comments from the less
serious members of the party. They were not all in accord with the
opinions quoted here, but, on the whole, Giuliano de’ Medici and his
supporters, who paid a fine tribute to the abilities of women without
wishing to impose upon them heavier duties, had the best of the
argument.
From men, women, and manners, the transition to love was an easy one,
and this fifteenth-century coterie discussed it in all its variations,
as we discuss the last play, or the last novel, or the last word in
sociology, or the misty era of universal peace. It was not a new thing
to discourse upon the most interesting of human passions. Men had
talked of it centuries before on the banks of the Ilissus; but when
they passed from its lowest phases they lost themselves in metaphysical
subtleties. It became an intellectual aspiration, a “passion of the
reason,” without warmth or life. Diotima, a woman quoted by Socrates,
called it “a mystic dream of the beautiful and good”; but if she was
not a myth herself, she could not join the symposia of philosophers.
Outside of the circle of Aspasia, no respectable woman was admitted to
the conversations of men; indeed, these finely drawn dissertations on
love had small reference to her. In the classic world women had no part
in the marriage of souls. Love, when not purely a thing of the senses,
was a worship of beauty, and the Greek ideal of beauty was a masculine
one. They might die for a Helen, but it was not for love. These wise
talkers sent the flute-players to amuse their wives and daughters in
the inner court, while they considered high things, as well as many
not suitable for delicate ears. The coarser Romans treated love as
altogether a thing of the senses, with Ovid as a text.
But in the golden age of the Renaissance, women no longer stayed in
the inner court, to gossip and listen to flute-players, while their
husbands talked on themes high or low. The worship of the Madonna, if
it had done little else, had idealized the pure affection of an exalted
womanhood. Chivalry following in its train had made the cult of woman
a fashion by giving her more or less of the homage already paid to her
divine representative, though this sentiment was less active in Italy
than in Provence or among the more romantic races. It was a tribute of
strength to helplessness, and had its roots in the finest traits of
men; but it exalted moral qualities rather than intellectual ones, and
was largely theoretical outside of a limited class. Now that men had
begun to dip into classic lore, however, they found a valuable ally in
women, and the old cult became a companionship. To be educated and a
princess was to be doubly a power, to have opinions which it was worth
while to consider.
The princesses of Urbino had doubtless read Plato. In an age, too,
that occupied itself with Boccaccio, who had glorified the senses
and written books that no pure and refined woman could read, they
had turned to Dante and the spiritual love which was an inspiration
and a benediction. In the white soul of Beatrice they found the
exquisite flower of womanhood. They caught also the subtle fragrance
of the ideal love which Petrarch gave, first to a woman, then to an
unfading memory. It was of such a love they dreamed and liked to
talk. Then one of the chief apostles of Platonism was the brilliant
Bembo, who was the star of this company. “Through love,” he says, “the
supreme virtues rule the inferior.” He puts on record and dedicates
to Lucrezia Borgia the conversations of three days on its joys and
sorrows; but the subject was evidently exhausted, as, at the end,
a hermit gives a homily on the vanity of the world. He closes an
eloquent apostrophe, however, with these words: “Chase away ignorance
and make us see celestial beauty in its perfection. Love, it is the
communion with divine beauty, the banquet of angels, the heavenly
ambrosia.” On this theme his listeners rang the changes, but not
always on so ethereal a plane. The relative constancy of the sexes,
the divine right of man, the passive nature of woman, who was called
a pale moon to the masculine sun, and various other points, had their
fair share of discussion. Between terrestrial and celestial love
there are many gradations, and the character and temperament of the
men were clearly revealed in their opinions. Some were disposed to
be autocrats, others took issue with masculine egotism, and still
others dwelt on the sentimental side of the question. One of the
Fregosos rather ungraciously assumed the traditional attitude of his
sex and contended that women are “imperfect animals,” not at all to be
compared with men. But he was in an unpopular minority. The Duchess
Elisabetta was a well-poised, discreet woman, who was devoted to her
invalid husband, kept her admirers at a prudent distance, and was in
no wise a victim to superfluous sensibility. The effusive Bembo, who
was given to friendships touched with the fire of the imagination, was
untiring in his devotion to this Minerva, but he confessedly adored
her as a goddess from afar. The witty and brilliant Emilia Pia had a
temperament the reverse of sentimental, and was ready to demolish any
castle of moonlight with a shaft of merciless satire. Both brought a
solid equipment of common sense into an analysis that often reached a
very fine point. But this friendship that was not love, this love that
was a sublimated friendship, appealed to them as it did to many others
besides poets in a grossly material age. To separate the soul from the
senses and intellectualize the emotions, was the natural protest of
intelligent women against the old traditions that considered them only
as servants or toys of men’s fancies. It took them out of the realm of
the passions and “gave them wings for a sublime flight.” The mysticism
of love is closely related to the mysticism of religion, and the faith
that sees God in ecstatic visions is not far from the love that feeds
itself from spiritual sources. These rambling talks, to which the young
ladies listened curiously and with interest, though usually in discreet
silence, proved so absorbing that on the last of a series of evenings
devoted to the subject, the party forgot its usual gaieties, and did
not disperse until the birds began to sing in the trees and the rosy
dawn shone over the rugged heights of Monte Catri.