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[Illustration: BIANCA CAPPELLO.]
_From an Original Painting by Cristofero Allori in the Uffizi at
Florence._
A DECADE
OF
ITALIAN WOMEN.
BY
T. ADOLPHUS TROLLOPE,
AUTHOR OF "THE GIRLHOOD OF CATHERINE DE' MEDICI."
IN TWO VOLUMES.
VOL. II.
LONDON:
CHAPMAN AND HALL, 193, PICCADILLY.
1859.
[_The right of Translation is reserved._]
LONDON
BRADBURY AND EVANS, PRINTERS, WHITEFRIARS.
CONTENTS.
TULLIA D'ARAGONA.
Born, about 1510. Died, about 1570.
CHAPTER I.
PAGE
My Lord Cardinal's daughter 1
CHAPTER II.
Aspasia rediviva 10
CHAPTER III.
"All's well, that ends well" 21
OLYMPIA MORATA.
Born, 1526. Died, 1555.
CHAPTER I.
Good old times in Ferrara.—How a Pope's daughter became a
Duchess; bygones were bygones; and Love was still the lord of
all 30
CHAPTER II.
Troublous new times in Ferrara.—How a French King's daughter
became a Duchess; bygones were aught but bygones; and Mitre
and Cowl were lords of all 54
CHAPTER III.
How shall a Pope be saved? with the answer thereto.—How shall
our Olympia be saved? To be taken into consideration in a
subsequent chapter 77
CHAPTER IV.
"The whirligig of time brings in his revenges."—Still
Undine.—The "salvation" question stands over 92
CHAPTER V.
Dark days.—The great question begins to be answered 108
CHAPTER VI.
The question fully answered at last.—Farewell,
Ferrara!—Welcome inhospitable Caucasus.—Omne solum forti
patria est 122
CHAPTER VII.
At Augsburg; and at Würzburg 143
CHAPTER VIII.
The home at Schweinfurth 154
CHAPTER IX.
The makers of history.—The flight from Schweinfurth 168
CHAPTER X.
A new home in Heidelberg; and a last home beneath it.—What is
Olympia Morata to us? 182
ISABELLA ANDREINI.
Born, 1562. Died, 1604.
Italian love for the Theatre.—Italian Dramatic
Literature.—Tragedy.—Comedy.—Tiraboschi's notion of
it.—Macchiavelli's Mandragola.—Isabella's high standing among
her contemporaries.—Her husband.—Her high character.—Death,
and Epitaph.—Her writings.—Nature and value of histrionic art
205
BIANCA CAPPELLO.
Born, 1548. Died, 1587.
CHAPTER I.
The pretty version of the story; and the true version
of the same.—St. Mark's Square at Florence.—Bianca's
beauty.—The Medici _en famille_.—The Casino of St. Mark.—The
proprieties.—"Cosa di Francesco" 220
CHAPTER II.
A favourite's husband.—The natural course of things.—Italian
respectability.—The three brothers, Francesco, Ferdinand,
and Pietro.—The ladies of the court.—Francesco's temper—his
avarice—and wealth.—Frolicsome days at Florence.—The Cardinal
recommends respectability.—The Duke ensures it.—A court
dialogue 234
CHAPTER III.
Bianca balances her accounts.—Dangers in her path.—A bold
step—and its consequences.—Facilis descensus.—A proud
father.—Bianca's witchcraft.—The Cardinal is checkmated, for
this game 257
CHAPTER IV.
The Duchess Giovanna and her sorrows.—An heir is born.—Bianca
in the shade.—The "Orti Oricellari."—Bianca entertains the
Court there.—A summer night's amusement in 1577.—The death of
Giovanna 271
CHAPTER V.
What is Francesco to do now?—The Cardinal and Bianca try
another fall.—Cardinal down again.—Francesco's vengeance.—What
does the Church say?—Bianca at Bologna.—The marriage privately
performed.—The Cardinal learns the secret.—The daughtership of
St. Mark.—Venetian doings _versus_ Venetian sayings.—Embassy
to Florence.—Suppose we could have her crowned!—The marriage
publicly solemnised 284
CHAPTER VI.
Bianca's new policy.—New phase of the battle between the
woman and the priest.—Serene, or not serene! that is the
question.—Bianca protests against sisters.—Death of the
child Filippo.—Bianca's troubles and struggles.—The villa of
Pratolino.—Francesco's extraordinary mode of life there 303
CHAPTER VII.
The family feeling in Italy.—Who shall be the heir?—Bianca
at Cerreto.—Camilla di Martelli.—Don Pietro on the watch.—
Bianca at her tricks again.—The Cardinal comes to look
after matters.—Was Francesco dupe or accomplice?—Bianca's
comedy becomes a very broad farce.—A "Villeggiatura" at
Poggio–a–Cajano.—The Cardinal wins the game 317
CHAPTER VIII.
Three hypotheses respecting the deaths of Francesco and
Bianca.—The official version of the story.—The Novelist's
version of the story.—A third possibility.—Circumstances that
followed the two deaths.—Bianca's grave; and epitaphs for it
by the Florentines.—Ferdinand's final success 333
OLYMPIA PAMFILI.
Born, 1594. Died, 1656.
Pope Joan rediviva.—Olympia's outlook on life.—Her mode of
"opening the oyster."—She succeeds in opening it.—Olympia's
son.—Olympia at home in the Vatican.—Her trade.—A Cardinal's
escape from the purple.—Olympia under a cloud. Is once
more at the head of the field; and in at the death.—A
Conclave.—Olympia's star wanes.—Pœna pede claudo 346
ELISABETTA SIRANI.
Born, 1638. Died, 1665.
CHAPTER I.
Her life 366
CHAPTER II.
Her death 379
LA CORILLA.
Born, 1740. Died, 1800.
CHAPTER I.
The apprenticeship to the laurel 393
CHAPTER II.
The coronation 403
APPENDIX 417
NOTES 429
INDEX 437
A DECADE OF ITALIAN WOMEN.
TULLIA D'ARAGONA.
(About 1510—about 1570.)
CHAPTER I.
MY LORD CARDINAL'S DAUGHTER.
One remarkable circumstance among those which specially characterised
the great intellectual movement in Italy in the sixteenth century, was
the large part taken in it by women. The writers of literary history,—a
class especially abundant to the south of the Alps,—enumerate a
surprisingly long catalogue of ladies more or less celebrated for their
works. The list of poetesses registered by Tiraboschi as flourishing
during the first half of the sixteenth century, consists of some forty
names. And he intimates, that it might have been made much longer,
had he thought it worth while to record every name mentioned by the
chroniclers of such matters, who preceded him. A great many more are
noticed as having been "learned" or "skilled in polite literature."
Such facts constitute a very noteworthy feature of the social aspect
of the period in question; and doubtless influenced largely the
tone of society and manners, as well as the position and well–being
of the sex. But it is very questionable, whether certain theories
respecting the comparative value of modern female education, to which
all this sixteenth century galaxy has given rise, be not founded on
misconception partly of the value of the learning possessed by these
ladies, and more still of the circumstances and appearance, under which
it presented itself to them.
Intellectual culture in that day meant especially, almost exclusively,
what has been since more technically called "learning." The movement,
which was then once again stirring up the mind of the educated classes
arose mainly, as every body knows, from the discovery and resuscitation
of the literature of ancient Greece and Rome. To be, if not a good
Grecian, at least a competent Latin scholar, was the first step
absolutely necessary in the liberal education of either male or female.
Nay, it constituted very frequently not only the first step, but the
entire course. In Italy this was in an especial degree the case. Not
only the fashion of literature, but the general tone of the educated
mind became classical,—and pagan. And the rapidity with which the new
modes of thought and fashion of taste spread, and,—speaking of course
with reference only to the educated classes,—popularised themselves, is
very striking. But they did so, because they were eminently suited to
the proclivity of the minds to which they were presented.
[Sidenote: THE NEW LEARNING.]
For this new learning came to them as an emancipation and a licence.
Such learning as had been before in existence was dry, severe,
repulsive, associated only with ideas of discipline, sacrifice, and
renunciation of the world and its pleasures—the proper business of
ascetic priests and hermits. The new studies were the reverse of
all this. Elegant, facile, materialistic in all their tendencies
and associations, adapting themselves readily to the amusements and
passions of the young and gay, they must be compared, if we would
parallel them with aught of modern culture, with the lighter of
those accomplishments, which are now called ornamental. The total
unchristianising of Italian society, which the rage for classical
literature very rapidly produced, was such as strikingly to justify the
modern[1] crusade against classical culture preached by those who are
anxious to preserve such Christianity as that, which then went down
before the irruption of literary paganism. The exquisitely organised
æsthetic faculties of the southern mind eagerly imbibed and readily
assimilated the habits of thought, generated by a religion, whose only
real object of worship was material beauty. The extremely relaxed
morality of the time was subjected to a refining influence, but by no
means checked by a literature rich in poetical drapery for every form
of vice. And the lightest, gayest, freest portion of society, beginning
now to be awakened to a relish for the elegances of life by increasing
wealth and luxury, found exactly what suited them in the revived
literature of the forefathers of their race; a literature which was the
product of generations uninfluenced by the wholly irreconcilable ideas
of a philosophy and religion imposed on their descendants with very
partial success by men of differently constituted races from the east
and from the north.
Englishmen are wont to estimate the study of the literature of Greece
and Rome in a manner very much at variance with the ideas expressed
in the above sentences; and judging it, as of course we do, from its
results among ourselves, most justly so. It would take us much too far
afield to examine satisfactorily why these results should have been so
different in the two cases. The most important portion of the causes of
difference would probably be found to consist in the dissimilarity of
our northern idiosyncrasies to those of the ancient writers. In Italy,
the old tree bore its own natural fruit. With us, it was engrafted on
another stock. The southern mind became all classical. The northern
mind was modified only by contact with the ancient literature. Perhaps
also, some weight may be allowed to the greater difficulty of the study
in our case; whence it has arisen, that the thorough and analytical
study of the dead languages, has been deemed eminently profitable as
intellectual discipline, and as the best foundation of general mental
culture.
And these views of classic learning lead us to attribute almost
instinctively, as it were, a high degree of solidity, grave scholastic
laboriousness, and respectability to the acquirements of those who
possess it. A lady well read in Greek and Latin, appears to us to
have necessarily reached an intellectual elevation which places her
above the shallowness, superficiality, and frivolousness with which
modern female education is ordinarily reproached. And we sigh over the
supposed inferiority in this respect, of England in the nineteenth
century, to the brilliant Italy of the sixteenth. It is true, that in
the case of Vittoria Colonna, we have seen a product of the classical
training of that day, which—_mutatis mutandis_—we might be content to
reproduce. But the instance is wholly exceptional; and the qualities,
moreover, which we admire in Vittoria are to be traced, probably, as
far as they are independent on constitutional idiosyncrasy, to those
associations with some very remarkable men, which taught her to use her
ancient learning as a tool, and not a final object.
[Sidenote: COUNCIL OF TRENT.]
The subject of these pages is a less exceptional product of Italian
sixteenth century classical studies; but by no means a less curious and
suggestive exponent of one phase of the social life and manners of that
epoch.
Among the grave and reverend seniors industriously busy at Trent, in
the year 1552, at their great work of constructing a dam to stop the
course of a perennial river, may be observed one Peter Tagliavia,
Archbishop of Palermo, a silver–haired and right reverend old man, very
prudent, wise, and sagacious, we are told, in the management of affairs
of all[2] sorts. There he is sagaciously dragging forward his bit of
stick to contribute to the formation of the great dam, undismayed by
the swift running of the stream the while. He is much puzzled by the
consideration of the manner and style in which it will be proper for
the assembled Fathers of the Church to communicate with heretics.
For it is quite clear, on the one hand, that _being_ heretics and
excommunicate, and damned already accordingly, all propriety and Church
etiquette would require that they should be treated and addressed as
such. But, on the other hand, there is reason to believe that their
arrogance will reach the height of expecting to be treated like
Christians, and that failing such treatment, no reply will be got from
them at all, and so all proceedings be stopped _in limine_.[3] Very
perplexing!
The sagacious Archbishop insisted much on this point, dragging up his
bit of drift wood to the dam with pertinacious industry. He was made a
cardinal in the following year for this and other merits; partly also,
because he had royal blood in his veins,—writing himself "Tagliavia
d'Aragona." He died five years later, in 1558, still busy in damming
that terrible river, which was already changing the face of things
around him. Even Rome itself was very unlike what he had remembered it
in the good old times, some fifty years ago or thereabouts. Ah! Rome
was worth living in and living for in those days! Happy days! when, as
His Eminence of Bibbiena used to say, we wanted nothing but a court
with ladies. Court, with ladies, quotha!
And with that our Archbishop's musings on the brave old days, when the
second Julius was Pope, and no heretical turbulence had yet disturbed
the sacerdotal empyrean, could hardly fail to recall a tolerably
brilliant galaxy of such ladies, as were especially attracted from all
parts of Italy, to a court whose numerous and wealthy courtiers were
all professionally and permanently bachelors.
"Poor Giulia!" sighed the Archbishop, "sometimes I wonder what became
of her?"
We will not ask for a reference to the accurate historian, who
overheard, and has chronicled these words. Roccho Pirro, in his learned
and voluminous history of the Sicilian prelates, it is true, omits
to mention them. Yet, I think, that if his Eminence, Pietro Tagliavia
d'Aragona, had been satisfactorily Boswellised, they must have been
recorded. For "poor Giulia" had been the mother[4] of the rising young
churchman's daughter some fifty years or so before the time at which we
find his Eminence working in his vocation at the great dam. And this
daughter was the celebrated Tullia (more or less) d'Aragona.
[Sidenote: GIULIA OF FERRARA.]
What _did_ become of poor Giulia? Giulia of Ferrara, the most
celebrated beauty of her day, in all Italy: the noted toast of
Rome,—the be–rhymed of ecclesiastical sonnetteers—the sighed–for
by purple–stockinged swains: Giulia, the Aspasia of many a frocked
Pericles, and the mother of a royal–blooded churchman's child! How
should respectable Mnemosyne know what becomes of such? Mnemosyne
mentions, with a blush, having just seen her once in the pride of her
beauty, flashing with cortège of horses and attendants, and glitter
through the streets of Rome.[5] And that is all. Mnemosyne begs to
be asked nothing more about her; and proceeds to relate with much
complacency the fortunes and preferments of the excellent Cardinal
Archbishop, the rules that he made for his clergy, and the privileges
and property he acquired for his Church.
Yet despite all this propriety on the part of respectable Mnemosyne,
despite her decent reticences, and official records of Palermo
chapterhouse doings, and Trent diplomacy, despite learned Roccho
Pirro's folios and immortality in the columns of Ciacconius,[6] the
fact is, that if the name of Archbishop Peter Tagliavia d'Aragona
is ever now spoken by the lips of living nineteenth–century men, it
is owing, incredible as the circumstance would have seemed to his
Eminence, solely to his relationship to little _nullius filia_ Tullia.
Not that the blood–royal young churchman, candidate as he was there at
Rome, under the immediate eye of infallibility for the Church's highest
honours—scarlet stockings, palliums, red hats, and what not—seems to
have felt any scruples and embarrassment about the matter. At all
events he provided abundantly for his "furtively received daughter,"
as Zilioli phrases it; and took care that she should receive an
education, calculated to make the most of the brilliant talents of all
sorts, manifested by her from her earliest childhood. "To the utter
astonishment of learned men," says Zilioli, "she was heard to carry on
a disputation in Latin while yet a child. She wrote also both in Latin
and in Italian compositions worthy of any literary man. So that, when
grown up, joining as she did, to her knowledge and worth, an exquisite
elegance of manner, she acquired the reputation of being the most
perfectly accomplished woman of her time. She appeared in public with
so much grace, with such beauty, and such affability of manner, that
when to all that was added the magnificence and adornment of dress,
calculated to set off all the charms of her person[7] to the utmost,
it is impossible to imagine anything more charming and exquisitely
finished than she was. Her musical touch was so exquisite, and she
managed her voice in singing so sweetly, that the first professors
were astonished at her performance. She spoke with grace and with rare
eloquence, so that whether in light conversation or serious discussion,
she delighted and captivated her hearers, like a second Cleopatra;
and at the same time, her lovely and ever cheerful features were not
wanting in those more potent charms, which admirers of female beauty
are wont to look for in a beautiful face."
[Sidenote: HER ACCOMPLISHMENTS.]
So richly had nature endowed, and so successfully had art cultivated
the child of the rising churchman! Father and daughter were both,
during those early years of the sixteenth century, perfecting
themselves for their subsequent destinies in the strangely jumbled
social world of that wonderful old Rome; he duly progressing towards
scarlet stockings and hats; and she to the somewhat similarly coloured
promotion, in the enjoyment of which, painfully blushing Mnemosyne next
authentically falls in with her.
CHAPTER II.
ASPASIA REDIVIVA.
It is fancied, with small reason probably, that to grow old is
necessarily more disagreeable to women than to men. And dates are
therefore popularly held to be especially detestable facts to the fair
sex. If this be so, the world in this matter, as in most others, showed
itself excessively complaisant to our fascinating sixteenth century,
Aspasia. For her contemporaries have been most strangely silent on
the subject as regards her. The year of her birth, and more strangely
still, that of her death, are alike unknown and undiscoverable. Must
we therefore conclude, that the departure of the superannuated beauty,
was as little interesting to the world as the arrival of the "furtively
received" infant?
The literary historians content themselves with vaguely stating, that
Tullia "flourished" in 1550.[8] It is true, that a difference of
opinion may be supposed to exist as to the portion of her career best
deserving to be so characterised. But it is to be feared, that poor
Tullia herself must have considered her "flourishing" to be over and
gone for ever, by the time she reached that period. For in the total
silence and negligence of every regular clerk in Mnemosyne's office,
some not–to–be–baffled, Dryasdust, whom our brilliant Tullia would
doubtless have hated with instinctive aversion, has succeeded in poking
out a certain letter that blabs much. Ah! those old letters in dusty
yellow bundles, with the unimpeachable evidences of their signatures,
addresses, and dates, hoarded by some correspondent's preserving
instincts, in many cases little counted on by the writer, how much of
all we know about our predecessors on earth's surface is due to their
unforeseen tale–telling!
[Sidenote: FILIPPO STROZZI.]
In the year 1531, Rome was settling down into her usual way of life,
after the dreadful catastrophes of 1527. Pope Clement the Seventh had
got over the most perilous and immediate of his troubles, but was,
as Popes are wont to be, very much in need of assistance from his
banker. Now, this necessary and important person was no other than
the celebrated Filippo Strozzi, who was then in Rome, busied in the
political as well as the monetary affairs of the papacy. But Strozzi
was one of those marvellous men, whose abounding vital energies
enable them to unite in their own persons, characters, pursuits, and
occupations, which might seem to belong to half a dozen most dissimilar
individuals. His political speculations and intrigues did not interfere
with his much–loved literary pursuits. His free–thinking philosophy did
not prevent his close intimacy with the Pope. And his vast commercial
and banking operations were somehow made compatible with the career of
a very notorious man of pleasure.
How nearly two of the manifestations of this multiform character
would occasionally chance to jostle each other, is indicated by
the conclusion of a long and important letter[9] on matters of high
political moment to Francesco Vettori. "Write to me in reply," he
says, "and be sure, that your letter shall be seen by no one but His
Holiness, as I desire may be the case with this of mine, written in
much haste, and with Tullia at my side." Dated, Rome, 28th January,
1531.
Was the bewitching Tullia close enough to his side to look over his
shoulder, as the plotting politician wrote matters to be shown only
to the Pope? Did she interest herself in schemes for the keeping
a Florentine oligarchy in check? Or did she sit patiently at the
writer's elbow, while he penned a letter of sixty–four lines of small
print, waiting till he was at leisure to bestow some attention on his
companion? In either case the degree of intimacy indicated is much
closer than an ordinary one. Yet the next letter,[10] written little
more than a month later to the same correspondent, seems in its sadly
Don–Juan–like tone, to afford very clear evidence that the writer,
if not already tired of his gifted Sappho, certainly considered his
_liaison_ with her in the nature of a "terminable contract."
After a few lines on political matters, this Don Juan of a middle–aged
banker[11] writes as follows:
"As for my own private affairs, I should be sorry, that you should
have believed certain silly stories of challenges and quarrels, about
matters which in truth passed amicably among friends here. For though
I do not pretend to take rank among your very prudent people, still
I don't want to be set down as a perfect fool, as truly I should
deserve to be, had I got into any such scrape for Tullia, or any other
woman. She is not, as you say, beautiful; but she is, if I am not
mistaken, highly gifted with talent and wit; and on that account, as
it is impossible to me to live without the society of women, I have
preferred hers to that of others.[12] And I have assisted her in some
of her necessities, to prevent her from going to the wall by unjust
oppression, during the period of my connection with her, which would
have been painful and discreditable to me."
[Sidenote: DATE OF HER BIRTH.]
The date of this letter is March the 2nd, 1531.
And as this date, with that of the preceding letter, are among the very
few of any kind discoverable with reference to Tullia's biography,
we must make the most of them. It is to be presumed, then, from the
above passages, that she must have been at least twenty, and probably
older, in 1531. But as her father died in 1558, and appears to have
been engaged in active business up to the time of his death, and as no
intimation is found of his age, as would probably have been the case,
if he had lived to be remarkably old, we can hardly be very far wrong,
in supposing him to have been about seventy at the time of his death,
and accordingly two–and–twenty in 1510. It would seem, therefore, that
Tullia could not have been born much before, and certainly not much
after that date.
In one respect, however, poor Tullia was assuredly wronged by the
wealthy and libertine Florence banker. He says that she was not
beautiful. Now, the testimony of a dozen enamoured poets might be
adduced in favour of her rare and fascinating beauty. And if it should
be thought that evidence of this kind, however abundant and concurrent,
needs confirmation, it has been supplied by the sister art. There is
an admirable portrait of her by Bonvicini, a contemporary of Raphael,
more generally known as Il Moretto da Brescia, which was engraved
very tolerably at Milan, in 1823, by Caterina Piotti. It represents a
very lovely face of the genuine regal type of Roman beauty. The brow
is noble; and the magnificently cut, but rather large and statuesque
features might perhaps seem somewhat hard in the firmness of their rich
contour, were not the expression softened by an eye eloquent of all the
tenderer emotions. Laurel branches fill the whole background of the
picture, in token of the lady's rank as a poetess.
How long after the date of the above–mentioned letters Tullia continued
her residence in Rome, there remain no means of ascertaining. Zilioli
says that she left it "after the death of her husband." And this one
phrase is the only intimation of any sort we meet with, that such
a person as Tullia's husband ever existed. It is true that such an
appendage is not of a nature likely to be dwelt much on in love verses
addressed to a lady. And to this category belong the greatest number of
the notices of her, which have come down to us. Yet it seems strange
that a wife should be celebrated from one end of Italy to the other,
and recorded, or at least mentioned, in the pages of every literary
historian of her country, and that she should have a husband whose name
even was never, as it should seem, alluded to by his cotemporaries,
and who has not left the slightest trace of his existence. It must
be supposed that, if ever spoken of at all, he was only known as "La
Tullia's" husband, a member of society discharging functions somewhat
analogous to those of a Ballerina's mama. It is, at all events, certain
that the lady was never known either among her contemporaries, or
subsequently, by any other name than that of Tullia d'Aragona, and
more commonly simply "La Tullia." And the strangeness of the view
of sixteenth century society offered to us by an examination of the
position "La Tullia" occupied in it, is not a little increased by the
fact of her having had a sort of behind–the–scenes husband, who appears
to have exercised about as much influence on her social standing as her
waiting–maid.
[Sidenote: HER HUSBAND.]
There is reason to suppose that her residence in Rome must have
continued till 1540 or 1541. For among the "Strozziane"[13] MSS.
preserved in the Magliabecchian library at Florence, there is a volume
containing the rules, members' names, transactions, &c. of the Academy
of the "Humidi," in which are entered three or four sonnets sent from
Rome to the Society by Tullia. They are not dated; but the Academy was
founded in 1540, and the volume bears at the end the date of 1541.
Nothing can be conceived more insipid and dry, than the lucubrations
of these "Humid" Academicians; and in truth the effusions despatched
to them by Tullia, and honoured by the Academy with insertion in
their solemn Archives, are quite worthy of their place in the Humid
annals. One is a sonnet in praise of Cosmo I. It begins "Almo pastor,"
and attributes to that lowminded debauchee and cruel tyrant all the
virtues that can possibly be packed into fourteen lines.
And this was written a couple of years after Filippo Strozzi (the
very particular friend and protector, by whose side it was a pleasure
to sit, while he wrote long business letters in 1531) put himself to
death in despair, in preference to remaining in the power of Cosmo, his
mortal and vindictive enemy. One might suspect that the fair Tullia
had had an opportunity of looking over his shoulder also when he was
writing that second letter, in which he had dared to say that she was
not beautiful!
Another of the sonnets sent by Tullia, and preserved by the "Humidi,"
is inscribed to Maria Salviati, and begins—
"Soul pure and bright, as when thou cam'st from God!"
Whence it may be inferred that there was in those days no such yawning
abyss between the "monde" and "demi–monde," as to prevent a lady highly
placed in the former from being addressed acceptably by one who,
according to nineteenth century notions, must be deemed a denizen of
the latter.
It must be understood, however, that any such phrase applied to
Tullia's social position in her own sixteenth century, would give a
very erroneous idea of what that in reality was. The classic Hetaira
seems more akin to this Apollo–chartered libertine of an age bent on
being equally classical.
Accordingly we find that the house of La Tullia—_her_ house! no mention
or hint of that Junius–like individual (Il Tullio, shall we call him?),
who must nevertheless be supposed to have been at home there under
hatches somewhere, or acting perhaps as groom–porter, and shouting the
names and titles of the Monsignori and Eminences, as they arrived;—the
house of La Tullia was frequented by the "best society" in Rome.
Ludovico Domenichi of Piacenza, himself a poet and a curious specimen
of a sixteenth century professional literary man, who must have known
Tullia at Florence in the latter years of her life, has recorded some
of the sayings and doings of a company assembled at her house in
Rome.[14]
[Sidenote: A PARTY AT HER HOUSE.]
A party of "gentilhuomini virtuosi" there were discussing Petrarch;
and the question was raised, how far he had availed himself of ideas
suggested to him by ancient Tuscan and Provençal poets. While this
was being debated, "L'Humore da Bologna" came in. This personage is
mentioned frequently by Domenichi as a sayer and doer of eccentricities
and droll things; but I have not succeeded in finding any account of
him; and think it probable that "L'Humore" may have been one of those
nicknames which the Italians are so fond of bestowing on one another.
He at once showed himself to be quite at home, says Ludovico, laid
aside his cloak; and entering into the conversation, gave it as his
opinion that Petrarch had served the verses of his predecessors as
Spaniards serve the cloaks, which they steal in the night; put fresh
ornaments and trimmings on them, so that when they appear in them the
next day, they are no longer recognisable. Upon which a Spaniard,
who chanced to be among the company, attempted to call "L'Humore" to
account for this insulting mention of his countrymen. "What!" cried the
wit, "is your Excellency a Spaniard? Boy, bring me my cloak directly!"
And so saying, he put it on, and wrapped it closely round him, as
he sat, to the infinite amusement, says Domenichi, of the assembled
company.
After the death of that mysterious phantom, her husband, says Zilioli,
Tullia left Rome in search of "fresh fields and pastures new." We can
only know that this was after 1540. But it must have been much after
this that she took up her residence in Florence. For the same writer
tells us, that she was then both in years and appearance pretty nearly
an old woman.[15] In 1562 she was, according to the date we have
assigned to her birth, only fifty–two or three, or thereabouts. And she
must have resided in Florence several years prior to that date. For
she lived there, we are told, under the patronage of Cosmo's Duchess
Eleonora of Toledo, who died in that year. So that she could not have
been much more than half–way between forty and fifty, when she appeared
to be "half an old woman."
Supposing her to have gone to Florence about 1555, and to have left
Rome not long after 1540, there is a space of some twelve or fifteen
years, during which we very nearly lose all sight of her.
Very nearly, but not quite; for we hear of long residences at Venice
and Ferrara; and can trace her to Bologna by a phrase in an epigram
too coarsely abusive to be reproduced, which Pasquin fired after her
when she quitted Rome. Little cared the brilliant poetess—errant
for pasquinades let off behind her back, while her course from one
pleasure–loving court to another was tracked, as Zilioli writes, by "an
infinite number of lovers, especially among the poets, who pursued her
like a pack of greyhounds, striving to bring her down by volleys of
odes and sonnets," to which our not insensible Sappho was ready enough
to reply in similar strain.
[Sidenote: A SONNET BY HER.]
Here, as a specimen of "her make," as the Italians say, is a sonnet
addressed by her to Pietro Manelli, of Florence, who was one of her
most devoted slaves:
"Qual vaga Filomena, che fuggita
È dall'odiata gabbia, ed in superba
Vista sen va tra gli arboscelli e l'erba
Tornata in libertate, e lieta vita;
Ed io dagli amorosi lacci uscita,
Schernendo ogni martir, e pena acerba
Dell'incredibil duol, che in se riserba
Qual ha per troppo amar l'alma smarrita;
Ben avev'io ritolte, ahi stella fiera!
Dal tempio di Ciprigna le mie spoglie
E di lor premio me n'andava altera.
Quando a me Amor; le tue ritrose voglie
Muterò, disse; e femmi prigioniera
Di tua virtù, per rinovar mie doglie."
Which may be Englished as follows, without, it is to be hoped, any very
cruel injury to the original:
"As when from her abhorr'd captivity
Fair Philomel hath fled, and proudly takes
Her way through grassy meads and bushy brakes
Restored to joyous life and liberty;
So I, from amorous bonds escaping free,
All torment scorning, and the poignant aches
Of grief untold, which too much loving makes
The doom of such, as love–bewilder'd be,
Had borne (alas! my hapless stars!) away
My garments from the Cyprian Goddess' shrine
Proud of the feat, when Love to me did say,
'I will transform that stubborn will of thine;'
And so he made me captive to thy power,
Renewing all my torments from that hour."
This sonnet is not worse than thousands of other such, which obtained
for their fabricators the name and reputation of poets in that age of
vaunted intellectual movement; and it is certainly better than the
majority of them.
And thus our brilliant Aspasia of the _renaissance_ fluttered from
court to court, everywhere received with open arms, everywhere the
cynosure of all eyes, everywhere the centre of a knot of poets and
_littérateurs_; and flashing off her sonnets and canzonets right and
left; now as offerings to be laid at the feet of some most illustrious
duke or duchess, and now in loving or saucy requital of those addressed
to her by her brethren of the guild.
But as
"All that's bright must fade,
The brightest still the fleetest,"
the inexorable years too soon brought poor Tullia to that period of
"half old–womanhood," as Zilioli so uncourteously terms it, which must
have nearly coincided with the date assigned by grave Mazzuchelli to
that period of "flourishing," which, it is to be feared, the "half–old
woman" would have fixed some five–and–twenty years earlier.
And what was to be done by a brilliant Apollo–chartered Aspasia, when
fallen into half old–womanhood?
CHAPTER III.
"ALL'S WELL, THAT ENDS WELL."
One of two alternatives only, according to the well–known _dictum_ of a
judicious French philosopher, could be adopted by any Aspasia or other
"charming woman" whatsoever, when brought to that pass. She must either
take to cards, or "enter into devotion." Such would seem, according
to the authority alluded to, to be the law of nature, which rules the
destinies of charming women whose charms have gone from them. Tullia
appears to have chosen the latter alternative, and established herself
permanently at Florence under the special protection of the pious
Duchess Eleonora di Toledo.
The times were changed, too, in Italy, since the days of Tullia's
youth. Life in Rome, and hence in a somewhat less degree also in the
other centres of the peninsula, was very different under Popes Paul
IV. and Pius IV., from what it had been under Leo X., Clement VII., or
Paul III. Devotion was now the _mode_, especially in courts. Princes
had begun to understand, that the cause of despotism was bound up with
that of sacerdotal tyranny; and that reform in matters ecclesiastical
went hand in hand with freedom in matters secular. Popes and kings
had become aware, that their fight against mankind could only be
carried on successfully by strict offensive and defensive alliance.
Hence orthodox piety was one of the surest roads to court favour. And
thus considerations of all sorts united in pointing out to Tullia the
expediency of quitting _La Bohème_, and becoming at once a respectable
member of society, and a pattern of propriety.
Literature, however, of a courtly sort was held in much favour at the
court of Cosmo, who founded academies and kept historians in his pay,
to set him and his doings before posterity in a proper point of view.
Tullia, therefore, in quitting the "pays de la Bohème," did not leave
her muse behind her. On the contrary, her most important work was the
production of this period of her life.
"Guerrino il Meschino" is a poem consisting of some thirty thousand
lines, in thirty–six cantos of octave rhyme. The poetess states in her
preface, that it is a versification of a Spanish original; an assertion
which has given some trouble to bibliographers; for the story of
Guerrino was popular in Italian prose long before the time of Tullia,
and has indeed continued so, quite independently of her poetical
version, to such a degree as to have afforded the subject of popular
dramatic representation within the present century. Some importance has
been attached to the question of its origin from the circumstance of
its having been supposed to have suggested to Dante some part of the
plan of his poem.
[Sidenote: GUERRINO IL MESCHINO.]
In an article on Dantescan literature, by M. Charles Labitte, in the
31st vol. of the second series of the _Révue des Deux Mondes_, he
says, that "it has been maintained that Dante took directly from the
old romance of 'Guerrino il Meschino' the subject and the entire plan
of his work. The date and the origin of the Guerrino, whether French
or Provençal, are uncertain.... Hell is represented in it with the
concentric form attributed to it by Dante, and Satan in both cases
occupies the lowest part of the abyss. But it would be easy to show,
despite the weighty authority of Pelli and of Fontanini, that the
romance of Guerrino, so popular in the fifteenth century, is at least
in its present form posterior to the Divine Comedy."
The fact is, however, that the idea of describing the adventures and
sights encountered by a denizen of this world, or his travels through
the world beyond the tomb, was exceedingly common in the century
preceding Dante; and we find it reproduced in many different forms. And
in all probability the story of Guerrino was popular long before it was
written in the earliest shape in which we now have it.
The contents are of the ordinary staple of the romances of chivalry,
unreadable enough for the most part. Crescimbeni declares[16] that the
story is comparable to the Odyssey; while the more critical Mazzuchelli
finds it "full of improbabilities, utterly contrary to history,
chronology, and geography."[17]
Tullia's own view of her work, and her account of her motives in
writing it, as set forth in her preface, are more to our present
purpose. She begins by observing, that whereas all other pleasures
either require the ministration of others, whose services we may not
always be able to command, or are of such a nature as to be of short
duration, like eating and drinking, or again bring with them dangers,
expense, anxiety, and often mischief,—such as travelling, gambling,
love–making, and such–like; reading alone is open to none of these
inconveniences. Accordingly everybody above the lowest classes, says
Tullia, reads now–a–days; and for women it is a resource especially
useful and necessary, as Giovanni Boccaccio well knew, who informed
us that he wrote almost entirely for the ladies. And had he only done
one thing which he has left undone, and left undone one which he has
done, his book would have been all that could have been desired. The
first is to have put his tales into verse, which it cannot be doubted,
says our poetess, is much more pleasant reading than prose. The other
matter, which should have been avoided, is the quantity of "improper,
indecent, and truly abominable things which are found from one end to
the other of that book, in which no respect is paid to the honour of
married women, nor of widows, nor of nuns, nor of secular damsels, nor
of godmothers or godfathers, nor of friends, nor of priests, nor of
friars, and, lastly, not even of bishops. So that it is truly a thing
to wonder at that not only princes and superiors, but even thieves
and felons, who call themselves Christians, can bear to hear his name
mentioned, without signing themselves with the Holy Cross, and stopping
their ears as against the most horrible and abominable thing that human
ears could listen to. Yet so utterly corrupt is our nature, that not
only is this book not avoided as an abomination, but every one runs
after it."
Poor dear Tullia's virtue fresh taken up from grass, runs away with her
a little! It is quite clear that there are to be no more cakes and ale
for any body, now that her junketing days are done!
[Sidenote: HER PROPRIETY.]
She goes on to complain that all the romance writers, "even Ariosto
himself," are disfigured by the same fault. She therefore, intent on
finding some pleasant reading with no offence in it, met with this
"exquisite book in the Spanish tongue, in which so many and various
matters are treated of, that I assuredly know of none so pleasant in
that language or any other. And then it is throughout perfectly chaste,
perfectly pure, thoroughly Christian; and neither in the facts nor
diction is there anything which any respectable and holy man or woman,
married or single, nun or widow, may not read at all hours."
This treasure of a book therefore she determines to clothe with verse,
the only thing wanting to make it perfect. It is for you therefore,
"my gentle readers, to accept my good intention, and give all the
praise to God alone, from whom comes all good, and to whom alone I am
thankful for the great grace which has so enlightened me while yet not
over–ripe, but youthful and fresh in age,—_in questa mia età non ancor
soverchiamente matura, ma giovenile e fresca_,—as to bring back my
heart to Him, and make me wish and strive, as far as in me lies, that
all others, both men and women, may have like grace."
How delightfully the vein of natural womanhood crops out from under
the thick overlying strata of propriety and devoutness! Poor Tullia!
And to think of that wretch of a biography–man Zilioli, talking of
"half–old–womanhood in years and in appearance," in speaking of a
period anterior to this!
It might be supposed, on the principle of setting a thief to catch
a thief, that our Sappho sanctified, animated with the excellent
dispositions she manifests, would have avoided the faults she so
furiously inveighs against. But that hallucination of her "not yet
over–ripe age" would seem to have come upon her so strongly at
times, as to have caused her to think the old thoughts and talk
the old _Bohème_ talk of her youth, in total forgetfulness of her
present character, and all the promises of her preface. Mazzuchelli,
in noticing this preface of hers, briefly and gravely remarks that
certain passages of her poem, which he refers to, show that she has
not attained the object she aimed at. It is, however, difficult to say
what Tullia may have deemed proper reading for nuns and damsels at all
hours. And if any English readers wish to judge of this for themselves,
they may be satisfied by consulting the tenth canto of the poem; which
contains matters that would among us be considered very undesirable
reading for any section of the community at any hours.
To this reformed period of Tullia's life belongs also her dialogue "On
the infinity of Love." It professes to be the report of a conversation
that took place at her house in Florence, between herself and Benedetto
Varchi, the historian and philosopher; and it no doubt in a great
degree resembles the style of talk affected at the quasi–academic
meetings of friends, which constituted the then fashionable form
of social intercourse. It was first printed at Venice in 1547, in
a small volume of some two or three hundred pages, with a preface
by Girolamo Muzio, one of Tullia's most fervent and most constant
adorers. He commences his preface by drawing a distinction between
spiritual and material love, and declares that his affection for the
authoress of the dialogue is purely of the former kind. The work was
sent to him, he says, by Tullia, without any idea of publication; and
he had ventured to send it to the press without her knowledge. In the
manuscript, as it reached him, the name "Sabina" stood as Varchi's
interlocutor, in the place of "Tullia;" "doubtless," says Muzio,
"because the writer's modesty was shocked at writing in her own name
all the praises that Varchi is made to bestow on her in the course of
the work." But he, Muzio, thinking that a feigned name could not with
propriety be introduced in conjunction with the real name of Varchi,
had decided on inserting the name of Tullia.
[Sidenote: HER DIALOGUE ON LOVE.]
The production itself is a truly wonderful proof of the amount of
difference that may exist between the average cultivated human
intellect in one age and country and in another. This dialogue on
the infinity and necessary durability of love, is one of hundreds of
similar writings on that and other such subjects, which constituted the
fashionable and much–enjoyed light reading of the educated classes in
Italy at that period. To a modern English reader, no dryest blue book,
no trashiest novel could appear so perfectly unreadable. The subject
presented to a man of our day as the theme for an essay, might seem
somewhat stiff and formal—_banal_, as the French say; but he would see
at once, that the consideration of it might lead to the discussion of
several questions closely touching some of the most interesting and
important problems of social polity. But Tullia and her contemporaries
saw nothing of the kind.
Nor let any saucy scapegrace imagine, that any experiences of the
different attributes of Eros and Anteros, which the authoress may
be supposed to have acquired in the course of her life, are in any
wise brought to bear on any part of her theme. The dialogue might be
innocently, if not profitably, read by any of those damsels and nuns
for whom Tullia specially prepared her less immaculate poem. There are
scholastically constructed argumentations, quotations from Petrarch and
Dante, syllogisms, with talk of major and minor premise, and plenty of
references to Aristotle, a little horribly _fade_ and mild raillery
between the lady and Varchi, and words—words—words, with such weary
going backwards and forwards over the same dry places paved with them,
as would make an admirable substitute for the treadmill in the case of
felons of education.
There are no means of knowing for how many years Tullia continued her
pleasant life of literary occupation and society, with all that was
most cultivated and agreeable in Florence. She would have published
other things on which she was engaged, says Zilioli, "had she not been
surprised by death before she had reached that extreme old age, which
Pietro Angelio of Barga, a most able astrologer, had promised her,
possibly with a view of acquiring favour in her eyes."
Her patroness, Eleonora of Toledo, who despite many virtues and
good qualities, was odious to the Florentines, on account of her
"insopportabile gravità," says Litta,[18] because, that is, she was
with her Spanish seriousness and gravity an intolerable bore to the
light–hearted Tuscans,—died in 1562. And in all probability Tullia did
not survive her many years.
[Sidenote: AS A SOCIAL PHENOMENON.]
The name of Tullia d'Aragona lives in the pages of Italian literary
historians, and in the memory of educated Italians as a poetess. But
she would not have merited presentation to the English reader as such.
As a remarkable social phenomenon, the product of the social soil of
the sixteenth century under the sun of the _renaissance_, the story of
her life, imperfect as it is, is well worth notice.
OLYMPIA MORATA.
(1526–1555.)
CHAPTER I.
Good Old Times in Ferrara—How a Pope's Daughter became a
Duchess—Bygones were bygones—and Love was still the Lord of all.
A certain class of writers, probably among the most sincere and earnest
of the defenders of the Catholic faith, have been driven by the
social aspect presented by all those countries in which Catholicism
has power, to admit, accept, and justify the absence of material,
and even intellectual prosperity, as a necessary consequence of
catholic views of life here and hereafter. Material prosperity, say
these ascetics,—plenty to eat and to drink, good clothing, commodious
habitations, life–embellishing arts, and ministrations of all sorts
to corporeal well–being, are not the proper objects of man here on
this earth. Nay, the wisest of mankind have in all ages, they say,
recognised such things as highly inimical to the pursuit of that
better aim, to which all human endeavour should tend. While the fatal
consequences resulting from untrammelled intellectual culture, are
among the surest and saddest teachings of human experience. That the
true and faithful fashioning of life therefore in accordance with
the doctrines of a creed, the whole scope and tendency of which is
the undivided pursuit of that higher and better aim, should be found
unconducive to material and merely human intellectual advantages, is,
they urge, not only what might reasonably be anticipated, but is a
confirmatory proof of the correctness of those views, which it cannot
be denied have made Catholic countries what they are.
[Sidenote: TENDENCIES OF CATHOLICISM.]
Such doctrine, though little likely to be deemed conclusive by
enlightened intelligence, or acceptable by the popular mind, has at all
events the advantage of moving the question into a strictly theological
court, into which the economist, the historian, the moralist, the
politician, and the philanthropist, are not obliged to follow it. For
their purposes it is sufficient, that the tendency of Catholicism
to produce poverty, squalor, ignorance, and depopulation, should be
admitted and registered. And they may well afford, at this period
of the world's history, to treat with a silent shrug, the theory of
those, who declare that these things are preferable to enlightenment,
abundance, and material prosperity.
But if it be indeed true, that intellectual and material decadence is
the proof and guarantee of a people's spiritual advancement; if the
desolating blight which marks unmistakeably every land overshadowed
by the wings of the Roman Church, be indeed an indication of its
ripeness for a better harvest than any to be garnered on this side
of the grave; then assuredly may we expect to find the purest and
brightest spiritual life ever yet manifested by a nation, among the
happy populations—_fortunati nimium sua si bona nôrint_—subjected to
the immediate sway of the successors of St. Peter. And should any
curious student of the _modus operandi_ and results of ecclesiastical
government, desire to know where he may advantageously examine such
phenomena in their most unmitigated form and perfect development, he
may be safely advised to bestow his researches on the city and district
of Ferrara.
There, indeed, the lesson he is in search of, is so written, that
he who runs, even though he speed on with the haste of the posting
traveller, eager to leave the abomination of desolation behind him,
may read it without fear of blundering. There indeed is a city and
people unmistakably marked by Holy Mother Church, as her own; silence
and solitude, decay, dilapidation, neglect, and sordid squallor,
characterise the impress of her paternal hand. And yet more forcibly to
point the moral of the spectacle, there remains sufficient traces of
what Ferrara was in the young ungodly days of her lay government, to
give all the force of contrast to her present condition. There is the
gaunt frame of a city calculated to house four times the amount of its
present population. The lofty walls of vast palaces enclose wide and
spacious streets, over which the green weeds are growing, and a dead
silence broods. In the centre is the moated castle of the old Dukes of
Ferrara, now the monstrously disproportioned residence of the priest,
who governs (!) Ferrara and its legation. Around this still lingers
what little of life and movement is left in the paralysis–struck city.
The more distant streets may be traversed from end to end without
the sight of a living creature, save perhaps a group of half–naked
mendicants basking in the sun, or the still more unpleasing figure of a
capuchin friar, sauntering along with his wallet over his shoulder, on
his daily quest, like some unclean reptile of ill omen crawling among
ruins which are its appropriate dwelling–place.
[Sidenote: FERRARA UNDER HER DUKES.]
Such are the normal and necessary results as they lie developed
and palpable before our eyes, of that system which was inaugurated
at the period to which the subject of these pages belongs. But let
ascetic theologians console themselves, and defend the issues of their
handywork, as they may, it is undeniable, that, be they as sincere
as they will, all such considerations are but after–thoughts. The
production of a society vowed to apostolic poverty and heedlessness
of the morrow, was not the object which the sixteenth century popes,
and those misguided rulers who played into their hands, had in view.
They intended to bring about very different issues. Yet this, which we
see, was the only one in the long run possible, as the upshot of their
doings. Divine providence so over–ruled the matter, quite in accordance
with divine precedent, having very irreversibly laid down the law for
the regulation of all such cases, at the time of man's first creation.
Previously to the inauguration of this fatal policy, the rule of the
earlier dukes of Ferrara of the house of Este had aimed at, and in
very considerable degree attained, quite other results. Beginning with
old Borso the first duke, who was invested with that dignity in 1471,
and who left behind him so good a name, that when in after and worser
times, men grumbled in Ferrara,[19] they would say, "Ah, 'tis not now
as in Duke Borso's days," down to his great nephew Hercules the Second,
who ruled the duchy at the period to which our subject belongs; the
Ferrarese princes had been very favourable specimens of the Italian
sovereigns of those days.
As for good–old–times Borso, the just, though he had not the advantage
of book–learning himself, he honoured it in others. The fact of his
own deficiency in this respect, we gather from the amusingly frank
avowal of a contemporary chronicler, who in a dedication of his book
to his sovereign,[20] remarks that, "Fortune, ever the enemy of worth,
has not willed, that to your other singular accomplishments should be
added that of literature." From the records of his reign however, it
would seem, that illiterate as he was, he must have had talents, that
would make an invaluable chancellor of the exchequer. For the same
historians, who give us the most glowing accounts of his magnificence
assure us, that he never oppressed his subjects with unjust or grievous
taxation. He dressed we are told, even when in the country, in brocade
and cloth of gold; he never went without a chain about his neck of the
value of seventy thousand ducats (!!), kept seven hundred magnificent
horses in his stables, and dogs and falcons in proportion. Then his
buildings were on a scale that might rival the doings of Napoleon the
Third. But that collar! We have heard of the oppressive weight of the
trappings of state, but little thought of the terrible extent of the
reality. For seventy thousand ducats must be reckoned at the lowest
calculation to be worth at the present day thirty–five thousand pounds,
and to be equivalent to about two thousand two hundred and fifty pounds
weight of gold. Now, admitting that nine–tenths of this value was
represented by the exquisite workmanship of the celebrated Venetian
goldsmiths, still we must suppose, poor Duke Borso to have walked about
the world with upwards of two hundred weight of gold round his neck!
[Sidenote: HERCULES THE FIRST.]
Borso's brother, Hercules the First, who succeeded to him in 1471, is
also spoken of with high praise by the contemporary chroniclers.[21]
They tell us, that his title to the dukedom was maintained against
a collateral pretender by seventy thousand inhabitants of Ferrara.
He signalised his accession by the remission of several taxes, which
seems somewhat incompatible with the praises previously bestowed on
Borso on that head; and still more so with the accounts we have of
his own magnificent doings. For he also was a mighty builder both of
palaces and villas for his own pleasure, and of improved and increased
dwellings for that of his people. Towards the end of the century, the
population of Ferrara, which we have already seen rated at seventy
thousand, had become so largely increased, chiefly in consequence of
the expulsion from Spain and Portugal of the Jews, who thronged in
great numbers into Italy, and especially settled themselves at Ferrara
under the then tolerant rule of its popular dukes, that a writer of the
time[22] declares, that no dwelling was to be found there for money.
Hercules, therefore, in 1492, undertook the herculean task of erecting
buildings to such a number as to double the size of his capital.
The work was commenced on such a scale, that the cautious Venetian
senators, his neighbours, were startled, and deemed it prudent to ask
what was intended by such vast preparations for construction. Duke
Hercules answered, that he was building houses for his subjects to
live in, and the Queen of the Adriatic seems to have been contented
with the reply. Various taxes were imposed, not on Ferrara only, but
on the whole of the Duke's dominions, including Modena and Reggio, to
supply the means of executing these works. But there is no indication
to be found of their having been considered grievous or excessive.
And we have no means of ascertaining whose property the newly–raised
quarters of the city were considered when built. Did they become crown
property, and thus enormously increase the already large means of which
the princes of the house of Este disposed, independently of taxation?
Or, as seems under the circumstances of the case hardly possible,
were any accounts kept, and means adopted to make the proceeds of the
new property available, in the shape of interest, to those who had
contributed to their expense?
Next to his ruling passion for building, spectacles of all sorts,
dramatic and others, and travelling, were the great delight of Hercules
I. All these were costly pleasures; and we find that, in contradiction
to the policy of the early days of his reign, want of money often
induced him to lay heavy burthens on his subjects. Nevertheless, he
had the art of making himself exceedingly beloved by his people. He
never hoarded money, but spent it almost entirely among the citizens
in making his court and capital the gayest and most splendid in Italy.
It was always "festa," always carnival at Ferrara. "Tournaments, races
of horses, of oxen, of asses, of girls and boys, shooting matches,
and hunting parties succeeded each other without interruption."[23]
Then the good Duke would sally forth o' nights, and looking in quite
unexpectedly take pot luck at supper with his loving subjects, in
genuine Caliph Haroun Alraschid fashion.
[Sidenote: ALPHONSO THE FIRST.]
Neither then nor at any other time was any court in Italy so thronged
with men of learning and genius. For such, come they from what nation
they might, there was always a warm welcome, and assistance, if they
needed it. Then again the court of Ferrara was a noted resort of
noble knights, who had differences touching their honour, to put to
the arbitrement of the sword. For the sport–loving Duke was always
ready to afford a tilting–ground, and the countenance of his august
presence to champions in need of such accommodation. Many accordingly
were the celebrated duels which came off at Ferrara, to the infinite
satisfaction and diversion of the Duke and his subjects. Then as for
his piety, if all the churches and monasteries he built were not enough
to vouch for it, says Frizzi, piously, it is abundantly proved by
his habit of going to various churches accompanied by all his famous
band, there to have mass celebrated with all the attractions of music.
Besides, in holy week, he used to wash the feet of hundreds of old men!
What more would you have?
His son Alphonso, born in 1476, succeeded him in 1505. This prince's
first wife, Anna Strozzi, having died in 1477, he married in 1501 the
too celebrated Lucrezia Borgia. That such a marriage could have been
thought possible, that it should have been proposed to the court of
Ferrara, and accepted by Alphonso and his father, are facts which
very strikingly set before us the vastness of the difference between
the habits of thought and feeling of an Italian of the fifteenth and
an Englishman of the nineteenth century. The consideration of a gulf
of separation so impassable warns us of the exceeding difficulty of
so sympathising with the men of that time and country, as to form any
tolerably fair appreciation of their conduct; not merely in the sense
of morally judging of it, with reference to the responsibilities of
the individual, with which wholly impossible task we have fortunately
no need to meddle; but in the sense of comprehending the bearing and
weight of the motives which regulated it.
Lucrezia was twenty–five at the time of this her fourth marriage.
What the tenour of her life had been, and the nature of the scenes
she had passed through, the English reader is probably in some small
degree aware; in a very small degree, unless indeed he happens to have
sought out in the folio Latin columns of the contemporary chroniclers
the details of abominations wholly unreproducible in any modern
page. And yet this woman, whose moral nature, if judged according to
our habits of thought, must be deemed to have been saturated with
impurity, and hopelessly depraved and destroyed, is proposed and
accepted as the wife of a prince, whose character stands higher than
that of any of his contemporaries of the sovereign houses of Italy,
and whose family was already remarkable among them for enlightenment
and respectability!—accepted to be the mother of his children, and the
means of transmitting his unsullied name and crown!
A very noteworthy instance of the extraordinary incompatibility of
the moral feelings of those times with our own, or of our imperfect
appreciation of the exact value of the terms used, occurs in a passage
of the "Relazione,[24]" of the Venetian ambassador Paolo Cappello, who,
returning from Alexander the Sixth's Court in 1500, tells the Senate
that Lucrezia is "prudent and liberal"—_savia e liberale_—and adds
within five lines, without further remark, that it is said, that she
had an incestuous connection with her brother![25]
[Sidenote: LUCREZIA BORGIA.]
But perhaps the most extraordinary and interesting fact of Lucrezia's
history, is that after her marriage with Alphonso, not only was her
life blameless, but her conduct was such as to merit and secure her
high–minded husband's affection and esteem, and in all respects to do
honour to her station. Her marriage with Alphonso therefore divides,
as by an abruptly and suddenly drawn line, the life of Lucrezia into
two portions, the earlier all black with atrocities and abominations
unspeakable, the latter shining with purity and many noble virtues.
Such a statement has been deemed to involve an absolute moral
impossibility; and Roscoe has been induced by the consideration of it,
to attempt a denial of the charges which have made Lucrezia Borgia's
name a by–word of infamy.
"If the Ethiopian cannot change his skin," he writes,[26] "nor the
leopard his spots, how are we to conceive it possible that a person,
who had during so many years of her life been sunk into the lowest
depths of guilt and infamy could at once emerge to respectability and
virtue? The history of mankind furnishes no instances of such a rapid
change."
But Roscoe's elaborate though weak defence signally breaks down. It
would extend what has already undesignedly assumed the proportions
of a digression far too much to enter into an examination of the
historical evidence on the subject. It will be sufficient to observe,
that Roscoe's "chivalrous" attempt, as somebody with infinite absurdity
somewhere calls it, was abundantly demolished by the "Edinbro' Review,"
January, 1806, at the time. And further evidence than was then
accessible to the reviewer, has since been made available to establish
the historical certainty, that the earlier portion of Lucrezia's life
was in truth all that it has been ordinarily supposed to have been.
On the correctness of the account of the latter portion, as stated
above, no doubt has ever been cast. So that we in reality have this
whitewashed–black–a–moor phenomenon before us, to make of it what we
may.
Gibbon disposes[27] of the matter by observing, that "perhaps the
youth of Lucrezia had been seduced by example; perhaps she had been
satiated by pleasure; perhaps she was awed by the authority of her new
parent and husband," Alphonso, and his father Hercules. But the moral
philosopher will hardly deem any of these suppositions a satisfactory
explanation of the facts before him. And a more serious consideration
of them will perhaps lead him to the conclusion, that whatever of
strangeness or novelty they may present, is rather matter for the
historian's study than for his own.
[Sidenote: LUCREZIA BORGIA.]
Well convinced of the reality of the impossibility alleged, that any
human being should pass suddenly from such a moral state as that
indicated to our judgments by the facts of Lucrezia's early career,
to such an ethical condition as that presumed to accompany her later
life, while he in no wise seeks to invalidate the historical evidence
of the case, he will yet deny such change to have been accomplished.
Knowing how large a portion of the spiritual deterioration arising from
any outward acts, is dependent on the degree to which the conscience
of the agent is enlightened, he will deny that Lucrezia's moral state
during the first part of her life was such as we are apt to conceive
that it needs must have been. Aware how very much of the difficulty of
turning from evil to good, consists in the arduousness of the struggle
to rise from infamy to good repute, he will assert, that Lucrezia could
not have been sunk in that depth of infamy to which we suppose that the
admitted facts of her conduct must necessarily have consigned her.
For the moralist there will be nothing new or striking in all this.
The interesting significance of the phenomenon is for the historian.
That restoration and _rehabilitation_, it would appear, which would be
impossible in the nineteenth, was possible in the fifteenth century.
The gulf which would now be wholly impassable, did not then yawn
so wide as to make crossing it impossible. Here is to be found the
explanation, and herein consists the historical interest of the facts
of the case. The finely organised moral sense of the nineteenth century
would have been wholly killed by similar wounds, and the spiritual
destruction of the individual would have been irretrievable. But the
lower, coarser, more rudimentary moral sense of the "ages of faith"
was not wholly killed by such injuries. And the extraordinary social
phenomenon of the marriage is only explicable in the same manner.
The moral reprobation, which among us would doom such an offender
to the isolation of a leper, did not exist in that age and country.
When the aged Pontiff Paul III. characterised the even more horrible
atrocities of his son Piero Luigi Farnese as juvenile indiscretions,
though the respectable world of the sixteenth century was revolted,
the discrepancy between the moral judgment of Heaven's vicegerent and
that of his faithful people, was very far from being as monstrous
as that between his and our nineteenth century English feeling. The
career of Lucrezia was also doubtless deemed highly reprehensible by
her contemporaries. Indeed we find it made the subject of invective
and epigram. But it is clear, that none of the horror and the loathing
attached to it with which we now regard it. It is evident that she was
not deemed hopelessly and irrecoverably soiled and destroyed by it.
And such proofs of the enormous amount of the advance in the moral
sense of mankind, which has been accomplished in the world, that
according to theologians, has been staggering onwards amid tottering
creeds and ever–multiplying heresies towards a religious cataclysm, are
among the most important fruits of historical study.
[Sidenote: LUCREZIA'S MARRIAGE.]
When the marriage was first proposed to the court of Ferrara by
Alexander VI., both Alphonso and his father Hercules were extremely
averse to it[28]. The Pope induced Louis XII. to use his influence with
the Ferrarese princes; and the king deputed a posse of churchmen, the
Cardinal of Rohan, the Archdeacon of Chalon, and the Archbishop of
Narbonne, to persuade Hercules and his son of the desirableness of such
an union. Their arguments seem to have consisted entirely in setting
forth the dangers that would arise to Ferrara from refusal. The father
was thus first brought over. Alphonso still expressed the greatest
reluctance. But when his father declared, that under the pressure of
the circumstances, he would himself, were it not for his advanced age,
accept the hand of Lucrezia, the son consented.
The bribes administered by the Pope in the shape of dower, were very
considerable. The investiture of his Duchy, which had hitherto been
conferred by the Apostolic see for three generations only, was made
perpetual. The tribute payable on account of it was reduced from four
thousand ducats to one hundred florins. An hundred thousand ducats was
also paid down in gold; and the bride carried with her to Ferrara the
value of an hundred and seventeen thousand ducats in precious stones
and jewelry; besides a proportionate amount of property in dresses and
furniture. And it was especially provided in the marriage contract,
that, in case of Lucrezia's death, Alphonso should not be called on to
restore any portion of this property.[29]
The marriage was celebrated at Rome on the 29th December, 1501,
Alphonso's brother Don Ferrante standing proxy for the bridegroom.
On the 1st of February the bride reached Ferrara, where the
preparations for receiving her may be said to have been nearly the
sole occupation of the entire city, during the interval between the
marriage and her arrival in her new home. And although Donna Lucrezia
and her extraordinary marriage have already too much lengthened these
notices of the court of Ferrara, the only scope of which is to give the
reader some idea of the scene on which the subject of these pages is to
appear, yet some of the details of these preparations, as recorded by
the contemporary diarist above cited, afford so curious a peep at the
manners and customs of the period, that the somewhat undue extension of
a merely prefatory chapter will probably be pardoned for the sake of
the interest attaching to them.
On the 22nd of December, the diarist notes, that fourteen bushels of
comfits were already prepared, counting up to that night, and that
the ducal confectioners would continue to increase the store with all
diligence. It has been seen already how large a part preparations of
sugar played on all such occasions.
Then we have a very curious illustration of a custom, traces of which
still remain among the people in several parts of Italy. On the night
before the Epiphany, children are in these days wont to hang up a
stocking, or some other such receptacle outside their chambers, into
which their friends put little presents, which the child finds in the
morning, and considers, or makes fun of pretending to consider, as the
gifts of the fairy "Beffana;" for such is the popular conception of the
meaning of the term Epiphany! Now see of how mighty a wallet is the
poor child's stocking the dwindled representative. The enormous expense
of the wedding preparations made a few "Beffana" presents especially
welcome to the young prince Alphonso at the Epiphany tide of 1502. So
at nightfall he rode forth accompanied by twenty–five horsemen, with
drums and trumpets, and went through the city "per la sua ventura," in
quest of fortune, or, as we might say, to see what luck would send him.
"And he got for his fairing, 'di sua ventura,' three hundred head of
oxen, an equal number of large cheeses, upwards of a thousand couple of
capons, and other things to the estimated value of a thousand ducats."
[Sidenote: THE BEFFANA.]
In truth, the Beffana was something like a good fairy in the good old
times, especially when a gallant young prince sought her favour!
But the Beffana could not supply all that was needed. For on the
following Sunday came out the list of appointments to offices for
the year. "And every man in the list paid for his place through the
nose." Bonifacio Ariosto and Battista di Zilioli, among others, paid an
immense sum for the post of commissioners of customs. And Tito Strozzi,
the Latin poet, was continued in his place of judge, to the great
discontent of all the people, "but it cost him very dear."
Besides all this, the ducal palace was open to all loyal subjects, who
came with anything eatable or drinkable to assist their sovereign in
the coming tremendous call on his hospitality. It was counted that up
to the evening of the 27th, among other things, fifteen thousand head
of poultry had been brought in as presents. Indeed the zeal of the
Ferrarese outran the necessity of the case, great as it was; for a few
days later we find that a large quantity of game and poultry had to be
thrown into the Po, because it had become unusable.
From the 25th to the end of the month, all Ferrara was hard at work
adorning the streets, levelling places that were uneven, putting
up scaffolding for seats where the bride would pass on her entry,
preparing accommodation for the five thousand three hundred horses
which were expected, contriving as far as possible means of lodging
the "incredible number" of strangers, who were continually arriving
to witness the festival; putting new marble steps to the altar in the
cathedral; and, lastly, in erecting over the door of the palace a
blazonry of the Pope's arms, together with those of the King of France,
and those of the most illustrious House of Este, "with angels and
hydras, and other exquisitely beautiful ornaments."
But a most provoking thing was, that in the midst of all this bustle we
had to send out a party on horseback to meet a certain French cardinal,
who was coming to Ferrara on his way from the King of France to the
Pope. And they had their ride for nothing, "for his most reverend
lordship determined to stay the night where he was, because his most
reverend lordship had not got his clothes with him."
[Sidenote: A STOLEN VISIT.]
At last on the 2nd of February the bride and her immense cortège,
increased by the Duke and the bridegroom, together with all that was
either noble or learned in Ferrara, who had gone out to meet them,
made their triumphal entry into the city. Alphonso, whose aversion to
the match has been mentioned, was more than reconciled to his lot by
the sight of the bride,[30] whose rare beauty at once captivated him.
She passed the night of the first of February at a villa outside of
the city, in order to make her ceremonial entry on the following day,
when according to courtly etiquette she was to be duly presented to
her bridegroom with infinite laborious co–operation of bishops and
benedictions, trumpeters, heralds, court–ushers, and bell–ringers. And
doubtless when the appointed moment came, both the lady and gentleman
performed their part of the show, and made their first acquaintance
with each other in the presence of assembled Italy with all propriety.
But it did so happen that a certain lynx–eyed "gentleman of the press,"
(who was early afoot in the exercise of his profession on the morning
of the great day of the 2nd, picking up stray facts to present them,—if
not all hot to "our readers" at their breakfast tables in a second
edition of the Ferrara Times, yet embedded fossil–like in the vast
strata of Muratori's colossal folios, to us and all future generations)
did see a figure, whom he perfectly well recognised as the Prince
Alphonso, quietly slipping out from a side entrance of the villa, which
held the bride, and hastening back to the city to prepare himself for
his part in the coming pageant.
Early it must have been that "our reporter" was guilty of this
professional indiscretion, for both dame and cavalier had much to do in
preparation for their day's work. She had to dress her head with a cap
and jewels valued at fifteen thousand ducats, and her feet with sandals
worth two thousand. She had to get on her state dress of gold brocade
and black satin, heavy with such a vast quantity of precious stones
that the value of it was incalculable. Thus accoutred she had to get
upon a white jennet entirely covered with gold brocade, under a canopy
supported by all the doctors of the University of Ferrara, and manage
him as best she might, despite his starting (duly chronicled) every
time the salvos of cannon were fired. Last, and by no means probably
least, she had to get her following of ladies of honour stowed in
sixteen carts.
As for Alphonso, he had only to put on a cloak all of plates of beaten
gold, of the value of eight thousand ducats, and hang chains about
his neck to the value of almost as much more, then to mount his black
charger, and ride forth at the head of all the Ferrarese nobility.
Then followed Pantagruelian feastings and junketings for several days;
in which the usual order seems to have been to dance all day, and after
the feast at night, to see "comedies" and "Moresche" or morris dances.
Then there were most extraordinary feats of rope–dancing. Among others,
a certain youth—_uno zovene nominato cingano_—probably "zingaro" or
the gypsy, passed along a cord stretched across the whole _piazza_ of
Ferrara, from the summit of the bishop's residence to the summit of the
ducal palace, frightening all the ladies by pretending to fall when
half way across, and catching himself by hooking his foot on the cord!
After having narrated all that the Duke's lieges did for their
sovereign on this grand occasion, it would not be fair to quit the
subject, without recording what the good Duke did for them in return.
On the morning of 23rd, all Ferrara was gladdened by a proclamation
made with sound of trumpet throughout the city, to the effect that
his Highness had obtained from Pope Alexander, permission for all
the subjects of the Duke of Ferrara to eat eggs and milk on all days
whatsoever, no further dispensation being needed than that signified by
the present proclamation!
[Sidenote: DUKE ALPHONSO THE FIRST.]
So old Duke Hercules was laid in the family vault in the early days of
1505, not unlamented by his people, leaving behind him a favourable
old–King–Cole sort of reputation, as the most junketing cake–and–ale
loving sovereign of his day. But he had pretty well seen the last of
the good cake–and–ale times in Italy, for many a long year to come. His
son Alphonso had his lot cast in very different days.
Italy begins to be overrun by the troops of the most Catholic Emperor,
and the most Christian King; and famine and pestilence follow in their
wake. Ferrara is afflicted by both scourges. And we catch a glimpse[31]
of the young duke striving at the opening of his reign to do his duty
by his subjects, by starting off himself in quest of corn. Carrying
with him good store of gold, he takes several of those huge ungainly
vessels, half ship half barge, such as may be still seen on the rivers
and canals of the Delta of the Po, goes to buy corn in Venice, and
returns with his fleet laden, with wretched stuff indeed, and bought at
an enormous price, but most welcome to starving Ferrara.
Then comes the pestilence, against which no ducal treasures avail
aught. Such general provisions, as fear and the rude science
of the time dictate, are enforced. Infected houses are shut up
absolutely,—none permitted to enter or come out from them. The great
convent of Franciscans is thus closed upon its wretched inmates. The
University is shut up; and all tribunals of whatsoever kind suspend
their business. But in five months the deaths amount to six thousand;
while other four thousand have saved themselves by flight.
But these are only the beginnings of misfortune. That terrible and
indomitable old man, Julius II., was on the papal throne;—a pope, who
really does seem to have had some idea of doing his duty as Heaven's
vicegerent on earth, on the theory that this was most effectually to be
accomplished by crying war to the knife against all who withheld from
St. Peter, dues, titles, or dominions, that should, could, or might be
his. Ferrara occupied a singularly provocative position on the map to
a Holy Father of this temperament. And what could be easier than to
find at Mother Church's need some flaw to a feudal title, among the
forgotten deeds of ecclesiastical archives, carefully hoarded, _ad
hoc_. Besides, if there were nothing else to be said, the Duke makes
salt in the marshes of Comacchio, to the damage of the apostolical
trade in that article; and is therefore hereby excommunicated, and
declared deposed from his Duchy, and his subjects released from their
allegiance!
A very hard struggle had Alphonso to hold his own against all the
spiritual and carnal weapons of the Church. It must be admitted, that
the latter seem to have troubled him by far the most. And more than
once it appeared as if he must have been overwhelmed by the superiority
of the force against him. But partly by his own military talents,
partly by the aid of the French, and partly by good fortune, he won
through, till the death of Julius allowed him, and the rest of the
world, a short breathing time of repose.
Not that his difficulties with Mother Church were at an end. Leo
X., though as mild a mannered Pope as ever launched a curse, had
no intention of abandoning all the Church's claims on a vassal in
disgrace. He relieved him from the excommunication, and permitted him
to hold Ferrara, but still maintained a claim on Modena, and made good
his hold on that city.
[Sidenote: LUCREZIA'S LATTER DAYS.]
In 1519, Alphonso lost, and as it would seem, bitterly regretted, his
wife Lucrezia. "Her husband and his subjects," writes Frizzi,[32]
"all loved her for her gracious manners and for her piety, to which,"
as Giovio says, "having long before abandoned all worldly vanities,
she wholly dedicated herself. She used to spend the morning in
prayer; and in the evening, would invite the ladies of Ferrara to
embroidery–working parties, in which accomplishment she greatly
excelled. Her liberality to the poor, and to men of letters, which
generally means one and the same thing," says Frizzi, "was especially
notable."
Clement VII., if not so terrible an adversary as Julius II., was
one quite as difficult to deal with. Promises made only to delude,
negotiations entered on with no intention that they should lead
to anything, treaties made only to be broken, a dexterous playing
off of one potentate against another,—these were the arts by which
Clement sought to steer his devious and trimming course among the
difficulties of the time; and which at last landed him a prisoner in
his own fortress of St. Angelo, while his and the world's capital was
being sacked beneath his eyes. In this predicament Clement had by his
duly authorised representative, Cardinal Cibo, in consideration of
Alphonso's joining the French King in a league against the Emperor,
conceded all the points in dispute between them. The investiture of
Ferrara was to be renewed and confirmed; all claim of the Apostolic
See to Modena, Reggio, &c., was to be abandoned; Ippolito the Duke's
second son was to have a Cardinal's hat and the bishopric of Modena;
and Alphonso was to make as much salt at Comacchio as he pleased.
But hardly was the treaty signed before the Pope escaped from St.
Angelo to Orvieto, and thereupon unblushingly refused to perform any
one of the promises made. And Alphonso, who had incurred great risk of
the Emperor's displeasure by performing his share of the bargain, had
to turn about with all possible speed, break with the King of France,
and hope by humble excuses to be able to make it up again with Charles.
Thus in Ferrara, as indeed throughout Italy, things were very different
from what they had been during the latter half of the fifteenth
century. Men might with some show of reason talk of the good old times,
and look out on those around them with misgiving and despondency. And
yet the Phœnix was burning herself as usual; only, as must be admitted,
with more than ordinary amount of pestilential stench and stifling
smoke,—smoke so stifling, so pestilential, that but few of those, who
had to draw their life–breath, as best they might, in the midst of it,
attained to any remotest guess that all this so sulphureous smother,
and confused darkness of the air, was in truth but caused by that
Phœnix burning, and preparatory for a purer atmosphere when it was
accomplished. Few in any age can gain such Pisgah–glimpse of the coming
time; fewest in that of which this writing treats.
[Sidenote: THE WORLD IN HER DAY.]
But of those few our Olympia, as it is hoped the reader will see reason
to believe, was one. Yet that terrible burning time,—such a Phœnix
burning as the world has once and once only seen since—was but on the
eve of beginning in the scene on which Olympia had to appear, at the
time of her appearance. Her mortal career had to be passed in the midst
of the very densest smoke–clouds of the funeral pyre.
Easy for us, looking back over the traversed maze with chart in hand,
to understand the plan of it! Easy enough to talk of renaissance and
glorious morning–tide spring of human thought! To those in the thick of
the sweltering struggle, it was as the eve of dissolution and universal
cataclysm.