Women in the Later Renaissance
The age of Lorenzo de' Medici--that bright fifteenth century--in the
history of the Italian peninsula was signalized by such achievement and
definite result in the intellectual emancipation of the minds of men,
art and poetry were given such an impetus and showed promise of such
full fruition, that he who would now conjure up the picture of that fair
day is well-nigh lost in wonderment and awe. But in this love of art and
worship of the beautiful it soon becomes apparent that pagan influences
were stealing into daily life, and that the religion of the Christian
Church was fast becoming an empty form which had no value as a rule of
conduct. Blind faith in the power of the Vicar of Christ to forgive the
sins of this world still remained, and in that one way, perhaps, did the
Church manage to exist throughout this period; for men, sinful and
irreligious and blasphemous as they certainly were, were none the less
so impressed with the possibilities of suffering in a future state that
they insisted upon priestly absolution--which they accepted with
implicit confidence--before setting out upon their journey into the
Unknown. The most terrible crimes were matters of common occurrence and
were allowed to go unrebuked, at least by the moral sentiment of the
community; adultery was too frequent, murder caused little comment, and
incest was not unknown. The pursuit of pleasure was of no less
importance than the pursuit of fame and glory; the Italian idea of honor
was in perfect harmony with deceit and treachery; and unclean living,
and a married woman was considered above reproach so long as she did not
allow her acts of infidelity to become known to all the world.
In an age of this kind it cannot be said that the women occupied a
position which is to be envied by the women of to-day. It is not to be
expected that the women will show themselves better than the men at such
a time, and when was there a better opportunity for vice to run riot?
The convents of the time were, almost without exception, perfect
brothels, and the garb of the virgin nun was shown scant respect--and
was entitled to still less. Venice became a modern Corinth, and was a
resort for all the profligates of the continent; it was estimated that
there were twelve thousand prostitutes within its gates at the beginning
of the fifteenth century. A century later, Rome counted no less than
seven thousand of these unsavory citizens, and they, with their
villainous male confederates, who were ever ready to rob, levy
blackmail, or commit murder, did much to make the Holy City almost
uninhabitable in the days of Pope Innocent VIII. As Symonds has said,
the want of a coordinating principle is everywhere apparent in this
Italian civilization; the individual has reached his personal freedom,
but he has not yet come to a comprehension of that higher liberty which
is law; passions are unbridled, the whim of the moment is an
all-compelling power, and the time was yet far in the distance when
society could feel itself upon a firm foundation.
From all that can be learned, it appears that women were not treated
with any special respect; men were free to indulge in the most ribald
conversation in their presence, and it has yet to be proved that they
took offence at this unbecoming liberty. The songs which were composed
at Carnival time were dedicated to the ladies especially, and yet in all
literature it would be difficult to find anything more indecent. Society
was simply in a crude state so far as its ideas of decency and delicacy
were concerned, and both men and women were often lacking in what are
now considered to be the most elementary notions of propriety. As the
men were by far the more active and the more important members of each
community, it cannot be said that women were looked upon with equal
consideration. The Oriental idea of women in general, as domestic
animals whose duty it was to minister to the wants and pleasures of
their master and superior, lordly man, was but slowly vanishing, and
many centuries of suffering, experience, and education were to intervene
before saner and truer notions could prevail. Lorenzo de' Medici, in
writing of a beautiful and talented woman, makes the following
statement: "Her understanding was superior to her sex, but without the
appearance of arrogance or presumption; and she avoided an error too
common among women, who, when they think themselves sensible, become for
the most part insupportable." It is evident that if women were generally
held in as high esteem as men, it is altogether unlikely that the
expression "superior to her sex" would have been employed, and the
latter part of the sentence leads to the further inference that
pretentious and pedantic women of the kind referred to were not
altogether uncommon at this time.
No better illustration of the relative position of women in society can
be found than in one of the letters received by Lorenzo from his wife,
who was a member of the old and proud Orsini family, which was much more
aristocratic than his own. She addresses him by the term _Magnifice
Conjux_, which certainly does not betoken a very great degree of
intimacy between husband and wife; and the letter concerns the
unbearable conduct of the poet Poliziano, who was then an inmate of
their house and the private teacher of their children. It seems that he
had persecuted her with his attentions, and she is led to protest
against his continued employment. In spite of her protest, however, she
meekly adds: "Know, I should say to you, that if you desire him to
remain, I shall be very content, although I have endured his uttering to
me a thousand villainies. If this is with your permission, I am patient,
but I cannot believe such a thing." Lorenzo's behavior upon the receipt
of this letter will be of interest and will throw much light upon the
question involved. Did he burn with indignation at this story of
Poliziano's disgraceful conduct and did he dismiss him from his service
forthwith as one unworthy of his trust? By no means. The children were
soon after taken away from their mother's supervision and sent off to a
villa not far from Florence, where they were put entirely under the
control of the man who had just insulted their mother! Furthermore,
Boccaccio wrote, at a somewhat earlier date it is true, but in a state
of society which differed little from that under discussion, that women
were of little real consequence in the world, and that "since but few
good ones are to be found among them, they are to be avoided
altogether."
The position occupied by women in the eyes of the law is somewhat more
difficult to determine, but it may be said with certainty that they took
no part in the public duties of life and seem to have manifested no
yearnings in that direction. They did not vote or hold public office,
and would no doubt have looked inquiringly and without comprehension at
anyone who proposed such possibilities. Women were evidently being
shielded and protected as much as possible; property was rarely held by
them in their own names, and the laws appear to have been made for the
men almost exclusively. It will be remembered, perhaps, that when Dante
was banished from Florence, his wife was allowed to continue her
residence in that city without molestation, and was even able to save
much of their property from confiscation and devote it to the education
of their children. Later on, when Carlo Strozzi was sent away in exile,
his family was not disturbed in the least, and it was during his absence
from the city that his daughter Maddalena was married to Luchino
Visconti in the midst of most brilliant ceremonies. Guests were invited
from all the north of Italy, there were horseraces and tournaments, and
the whole function was one of great pomp and brilliancy. The brothers
and grown sons of exiled citizens were never accorded such
consideration, and it is but fair to assume that the popular sentiment
of the time demanded this exceptional treatment for the women. At one
time it was even held to be against the Florentine statutes to banish a
woman; in 1497, at the time of a conspiracy to restore the banished
Piero de' Medici to power, his sister, though proved to have conspired
in equal measure with the men, was not given an equal measure of
punishment; she was merely kept in seclusion for a period at the palace
of Guglielmo de' Pazzi, and was then set at liberty through the
influence of Francesco Valori, to whom it seemed unworthy to lay hands
upon a woman.
In the midst of this exciting and excited world, it may well be imagined
that the passions were strong and that women of charm and beauty were
able to exercise no little influence upon the men who came within their
power. Never, perhaps, in the history of modern civilization has the
æsthetic instinct of a people been so thoroughly aroused as it was in
Italy at this time, and the almost pagan love of beauty which possessed
them led to many extravagances in their sentimental conceptions. As
Lorenzo de' Medici was the most powerful and distinguished Italian of
his time, so may he be termed its representative lover, for his
excursions into the land of sentiment may be considered as typical of
his day and generation. The first passion of his heart was purely
subjective and artificial, the result of a forcing process which had
been induced by the power of brotherly love. It so happened that
Lorenzo's brother Giuliano, who was assassinated later by the Pazzi,
loved, very tenderly, a lady named Simonetta, reputed to be the most
beautiful woman in all Florence; so great was her fame that she was
quite generally spoken of as _la bella Simonetta_, and the artist
Botticelli, who had an eye for a pretty woman, has left us a portrait
which vouches for her charms in no uncertain way. She was but a fragile
flower, however, and died in the bloom of youth, mourned by her lover
with such genuine grief that, with one impulse, all sought to bring him
consolation. Letters of condolence were written in prose and verse,
sonnets were fairly showered upon him, and Greek and Latin were used as
often as Italian in giving expression to the universal sorrow. But how
all this affected Lorenzo, and what inspiration it gave to his muse, he
had best relate in his own words, for the tale is not devoid of romance,
and he alone can do it justice:
"A young lady of great personal charm happened to die at Florence;
and as she had been very generally admired and beloved, so her
death was as generally lamented. Nor was this to be marvelled at,
for she possessed such beauty and such engaging manners that almost
every person who had any acquaintance with her flattered himself
that he had obtained the chief place in her affections. Her sad
death excited the extreme regret of her admirers; and as she was
carried to the place of burial, with her face uncovered, those who
had known her in life pressed about her for a last look at the
object of their adoration, and then accompanied her funeral with
their tears. On this occasion, all the eloquence and all the wit of
Florence were exerted in paying due honors to her memory, both in
verse and prose. Among the rest, I, also, composed a few sonnets,
and, in order to give them greater effect, I tried to convince
myself that I too had been deprived of the object of my love, and
to excite in my own mind all those passions which might enable me
to move the affections of others."
In this attempt to put himself in the place of another, Lorenzo de'
Medici began to wonder how it would seem to have such grief to bear on
his own account; and then his thoughts went still further afield, and he
found himself speculating as to whether or not another lady could be
found of the same merit and beauty as the lamented Simonetta. In the
midst of the great number of those who were writing eulogistic poetry in
this lady's honor, Lorenzo began to feel that the situation lacked
distinction, and he was not slow to realize what great reputation might
be acquired by the lucky mortal who could unearth another divinity of
equal charm. For some time he tried in vain, and then suddenly success
crowned his efforts, and he has told us in what manner. "A public
festival was held in Florence, to which all that was noble and beautiful
in the city resorted. To this I was brought by some of my companions (I
suppose as my destiny led) against my will, for I had for some time past
avoided such exhibitions; or if at times I had attended them, it
proceeded rather from a compliance with custom than from any pleasure I
experienced in them. Among the ladies there assembled, I saw one of
such sweet and charming manners that I could not help saying, as I
looked at her, 'If this person were possessed of the delicacy, the
understanding, and the accomplishments of her who is lately dead, most
certainly she excels her in the charm of her person.' Resigning myself
to my passion, I endeavored to discover, if possible, how far her
manners and conversation agreed with her appearance; and here I found
such an assemblage of extraordinary endowments that it is difficult to
say whether she excelled more in person or in mind. Her beauty was, as I
have said before, astonishing. She was of a just and proper height. Her
complexion was extremely fair, but not pale, blooming, but not ruddy.
Her countenance was serious without being severe, mild and pleasant
without levity or vulgarity. Her eyes were sparkling, but without
indication of pride or conceit. Her whole figure was so finely
proportioned that amongst other women she appeared with superior
dignity, yet free from the least degree of formality or affectation. In
walking or in dancing, or in other exercises which display the person,
every motion was elegant and appropriate. Her sentiments were always
just and striking and have furnished me material for some of my sonnets;
she always spoke at the proper time, and always to the purpose, so that
nothing could be added, nothing taken away.... To recount all her
excellencies would far exceed my present limits, and I shall therefore
conclude with affirming that there was nothing which could be desired in
a beautiful and accomplished woman which was not in her most abundantly
found. By these qualities, I was so captivated that not a power or
faculty of my body or mind remained any longer at liberty, and I could
not help considering the lady who had died as the star of Venus, which
at the approach of the sun is totally overpowered and extinguished."
The name of this wondrous lady is carefully kept in the background by
Lorenzo, but from other sources she is known to have been Lucrezia
Donati, a lady of noble birth, celebrated for her goodness and beauty,
and a member of that same Donati family to which Dante's wife belonged.
At the time of this love affair, Lorenzo was about twenty, and the lady
was somewhat older, but that made no difference to the young poet, who
immediately began to exhibit all those symptoms which have become
traditional in such maladies of the heart. He lost his appetite, grew
pale, shunned the society of even his dearest friends, took long,
solitary walks, and wrote many an ode and sonnet in honor of the fair
Donati. But she was indeed a divinity rather than a friend, and his
oft-expressed delight in her many charms was rather intellectual than
emotional and passionate. She becomes for him, in truth, a very sun of
blazing beauty, which he looks upon to admire, but the fire of the lover
is entirely wanting. While it was no such mystic attachment as that
professed by Dante for Beatrice, it no doubt resembles it from certain
points of view, as, in each case, the lover has little actual
acquaintance with the object of his affections. But there this
comparison must end, for it has been explained how Dante derived a
certain moral and spiritual benefit from his early brooding love, and in
the more modern instance nothing of the kind is apparent. On the
contrary, everything seems to show that Lorenzo was at an age when his
"fancy lightly turned to thoughts of love," and, being of a poetic
temperament, he amused himself by writing amorous poetry which came from
the head and not the heart. The characteristic traits of this poetry,
then, are grace and elegance, sonority and rhythm; it lacks sincerity
and that impetuous flow of sentiment which is generally indicative of
intense feeling. It cannot be denied, however, that he often reached a
high plane; perhaps the following lines show him at his best:
"Quale sopra i nevosi ed alti monti
Apollo spande il suo bel lume adorno,
Tal' i crin suoi sopra la bianca gonna!
Il tempo e'l luogo non ch'io conti,
Che dov'è si bel sole è sempre giorno;
E Paradiso, ov'è si bella Donna!"
[As Apollo sheds his golden beams over the snowy summits of the lofty
mountains, so flowed her golden tresses over her gown of white. But I
need not note the time and place, for where shines so fair a sun it can
be naught but day, and where dwells my lady fair can be but Paradise!]
While still preoccupied with what Mrs. Jameson terms his visions of love
and poetry, he was called upon by his father, at the age of twenty-one,
to marry, for political reasons, a woman whom he had never seen--Clarice
Orsini. That the marriage was unexpected is attested by a note in his
diary to this effect: "I, Lorenzo, took to wife, Donna Clarice Orsini,
or rather she was given to me," on such and such a day. The ceremony was
performed in Naples, it appears, but the wedding festivities were
celebrated in Florence, and never was there a more brilliant scene in
all the city's history. The fête began on a Sunday morning and lasted
until midday of the Tuesday following, and for that space of time almost
the entire population was entertained and fed by the Medici. On this
occasion the wedding presents took a practical turn, in part, for, from
friends and from some of the neighboring villages subject to the rule of
Florence, supplies were sent in great quantities; among the number,
record is made of eight hundred calves and two thousand pairs of
chickens! There were music and dancing by day and by night; musicians
were stationed in various parts of the city, and about them the dancers
filled the streets. An adequate conception of this scene will perhaps be
a matter of some difficulty, but those who know something of the way in
which the people in modern Paris dance upon the smooth pavements on the
night of the national holiday, the Quatorze Juillet, will possess at
least a faint idea of what it must have been. That all classes of the
population were cared for at this great festival is proved by the fact
that one hundred kegs of wine were consumed daily, and that five
thousand pounds of sweetmeats and candies were distributed among the
people.
The marriage of the poet Ariosto with the beautiful Alessandra Strozzi,
widow of Tito Strozzi, a noble Florentine who was famed in his day for
his Latin poetry, was not concluded with any such display and
magnificence, the author of the _Orlando Furioso_ being in no position
which made it necessary for him to entertain the whole population, and
having ideas all his own regarding the advantage of publicity in such
matters. Long before Ariosto's marriage, however, in the days of his
youth and before he had ever set eyes upon the Titian-haired Alessandra,
he fell captive to the charms of Ginevra Lapi, a young girl of
Florentine family, who lived at or near Mantua. He met her first at a
_festa di ballo_, we are told, and there he was much impressed with her
grace and beauty, for she seemed like a young goddess among her less
favored companions. Then began that attachment which lasted for long
years and which seems to have inspired much of his earlier lyric poetry.
Four years after their first meeting he writes that she was "dearer to
him than his own soul and fairer than ever in his eyes," and she seems
to have made a very strong impression upon his mind, as he mentions her
long afterward with most genuine tenderness. What more than this may be
said of Ginevra Lapi has not yet come to light, and it is due to the
poet alone that her name has been handed down to posterity. If Ariosto
had been an expansive and communicative man, we might know far more than
we do of Ginevra and of the other friends of his youth, for he was a
person of most impressionable nature, who was very susceptible to the
allurements of beautiful women, and there is no doubt of the fact that
he had a certain compelling charm which made him almost irresistible
with the ladies of his _entourage_. However, the history of his affairs
of the heart has baffled all investigators as yet, because the poet,
from the very earliest days of his youth, made it a rule never to boast
of his conquests or to speak of his friends in any public way. As a
symbol of this gallant rule of conduct, there is still preserved at
Ferrara one of Ariosto's inkstands, which is ornamented with a little
bronze Cupid, finger upon lip in token of silence.
Early biographers and literary historians were inclined to give to
Ginevra Lapi all credit for the more serious inspiration which prompted
him to write the major part of his amatory verse, and so careful had he
been to conceal the facts that it was not until many years after his
death that his marriage to Alessandra Strozzi was generally known.
Ariosto had been on a visit to Rome in the year 1515, and, on his
return, he chanced to stop at Florence, where he intended to spend three
or four days during the grand festival which was being held in honor of
Saint John the Baptist. Arriving just in time to be present at some
social function of importance, the poet there saw for the first time
this lady who was to mean so much to him for all the rest of his life.
It will be remembered that when Lorenzo de' Medici first met Lucrezia
Donati he had been taken to some evening company, much against his
will. In the present instance, it was the lady who showed
disinclination to go into society, and her recent widowhood gave her
good reason for her feeling in the matter; but, won over by the
entreaties of her friends, _da preghi vinta_, she finally consented to
go. What she wore and how she looked, and how she bore herself, and much
more, do we know from Ariosto's glowing lines which were written in
commemoration of this event. Her gown was of black, all embroidered with
bunches of grapes and grape leaves in purple and gold. Her luxuriant
blond hair, the _richissima capellatura bionda_, was gathered in a net
behind and, parted in the middle, fell to her shoulders in long curls on
either side of her face; and on her forehead, just where the hair was
parted, she wore a twig of laurel, cunningly wrought in gold and
precious stones.
Alessandra's most effective charm was her wonderful hair, of that color
which had been made famous by the pictures of Titian and Giorgione, and
it really seems that in Ariosto's time this color was so ardently
desired that hair dyes were in common use, especially in Venice. It is
with a feeling of some regret that we are led to reflect that much of
that gorgeous hair which we have admired for so many years in the famous
paintings of the Venetian masters may be artificial in its brilliant
coloring, but such, alas! is probably the case. The fair Alessandra,
nevertheless, had no need to resort to the dye pots of Venice, as Mother
Nature had been generous in the extreme, and the poet was inspired by
the truth, if the painters of the time were not. How unfortunate, then,
that a serious illness was the means of her being shorn of this crowning
glory! Her attending physician decided upon one occasion that it would
be necessary to cut her hair to save her life, but later events proved
that he had been over anxious and that this desperate remedy had been
entirely uncalled for. Ariosto, as may well be believed, was indignant
at the sacrifice, and wrote three sonnets regarding it before he cooled
his anger. In one of these passionate protests occur the following
lines, which will give some idea of his highly colored style and at the
same time show us what an important place Alessandra Strozzi must have
held in his affections: "When I think, as I do a thousand times a day,
upon those golden tresses, which neither wisdom nor necessity but hasty
folly tore, alas! from that fair head, I am enraged, my cheeks burn with
anger, even tears gush forth bathing my face and bosom. I would die,
could I but be avenged upon the impious stupidity of that rash hand. O
Love, if such wrong goes unpunished, thine be the reproach!... Wilt thou
suffer the loveliest and dearest of thy possessions to be boldly
ravished and yet bear it in silence?"
Though Ariosto had come to Florence to spend but a summer day or two at
Saint John's feast, his visit lengthened into weeks, and full six months
had rolled around before he could tear himself away after that first
eventful evening. As his time was spent with his friend Vespucci,
Alessandra's brother-in-law, he had ample opportunity to bask in her
smiles without exciting unfavorable comment; and when he finally did
depart, he left his heart behind him. From that day until the time of
his death it was known that he loved her, but their names were never
coupled in any scandalous way, and it was only after the death of the
poet that the fact was known that they had been secretly married. No one
has been able to give the exact date of this marriage, but there is now
little doubt with regard to the fact itself, and certain evidence leads
to the conclusion that the wedding must have taken place in the year
1522. Why this matter was kept a secret has given rise to much
speculation, for it would appear to the superficial observer that a
public acknowledgment of the fact might have been a matter of pride to
either the poet or the Signora Strozzi. Family reasons have been alleged
by Baruffaldi, one of Ariosto's many biographers, but they seem entirely
inadequate and unsatisfactory, and the whole matter still remains
shrouded in mystery.
One side of the question which has not perhaps been presented before is
this--would there have been any change in the tone of Ariosto's lyric
verse if Alessandra had been known to all the world as his wife? With
the possible exceptions of the Brownings and one or two others, the case
is hardly recorded where a poet has been inspired to his highest efforts
by his wedded wife, and it is extremely problematical whether or not in
the present instance the fire and fervor of Ariosto's lines could have
been kindled at a domestic hearth which all the world might see. The
secret marriage was probably insisted upon by the wife, and all honor to
Alessandra Strozzi for her pure heart in that corrupt time! But the fact
was probably kept hidden to gratify some whim of the poet. The very
situation is tinged with the romantic, the old adage about stolen sweets
was undoubtedly as true in that time as it is to-day, and the poet had a
restless nature which could ill brook the ordinary yoke of Hymen. So
long as he could live in the Via Mirasole, and Alessandra in the stately
Casa Strozzi, Ferrara had charms for him, and his muse was all aflame.
Would this have been true if one roof had sheltered them?
Whatever the verdict may be in this matter, the fact remains that all of
Ariosto's lyric poetry and many of the passages in the _Orlando Furioso_
were inspired by his real love for some woman, and it was this living,
burning passion which gives him his preeminence as a poet. He had
mannerisms, it is true, and much that he wrote is apt to appear stilted
to the ordinary English reader, but such mannerisms are only the
national characteristics of most Italian poetry and must be viewed in
that light. On the other hand, Ariosto's evident sincerity is in
striking contrast to the cold, intellectual, amatory verse of Lorenzo
de' Medici, which was, in truth, but an æsthetic diversion for that
brilliant prince. And even this was due to the inspiration he received
from the sight of a fair lady, many years his senior, for whom he had a
most distant, formal, Platonic affection, while it never dawned upon him
that his own wife's beauty might deserve a sonnet now and then.