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.
The eldest child of Hercules and Renée was a daughter, Anna, born in
1531. Alphonso, the heir apparent, who succeeded to the Duchy in 1559,
was born in 1533. Then came another daughter, Lucrezia, born in 1535, a
third named Eleonora, in 1547, and lastly a second son, called Luigi,
in 1538. Thus Anna, the eldest, was eight years old at the time of
Morato's return to Ferrara; and her education, according to the newest
fashion then in vogue, was the chief pre–occupation of the Duchess. The
new learning was the fashionable mania of the day in ladies' bower,
as in the halls of universities. A delicate taste for the charm of a
Ciceronian style was as much necessary to the finished education of a
noble lady then, as the graceful carriage of the person in crossing
a room or entering a carriage is now. Male blockheadism had not yet
suggested to the prudent jealousy of the lords of the creation the
discovery, that learning tended to unfit women for the more special
duties of wives and mothers. Not to be classical was to be nothing. So
Anna d'Este was above all else to be a perfect Latinist and Grecian.
It was in 1540, when she was only nine years old (!) that Calcagnini
thus wrote to her, of course in Latin, only to be known from that of
the purest Augustan mintage by its greater difficulty and a certain
affected intricacy of construction, observable in most of the Latinists
of that period:—
"I have read the fables you have translated from the Tuscan into Latin,
in an elegant and ornate style, as becomes a royal hand. On finishing
the perusal I had only to regret, that it was so soon ended, and that
my curiosity was left unsatisfied. I trust that these essays may be the
seed of future compositions, which, when matured, will reflect honour
on your name. I have already the pleasure of applauding these first
steps on the path to fame."
What the very young lady's own composition may have been we have no
means of judging; but it must be presumed that she was at all events
competent to read readily the letter in which these compliments are
addressed to her; and we should now–a–days consider that much for a
young lady of nine years, or young gentleman either.
Other translations sent, as it seems, to Celio Curione in the following
year, are acknowledged by him in still more flattering and flowery
language. And the circumstance is remarkable on other grounds than
as a testimony to the Princess Anna's classical proficiency. Curione
was at that time, as has been seen, a refugee from ecclesiastical
persecution, finding shelter and concealment in the house of Morato.
Is it to be supposed that Duke Hercules would have tolerated his
daughter's correspondence with one so situated, and that, too, after
the unfortunate Calvin discovery? It seems to be but too clear, that
Miss Anna and her mamma must have come to the understanding that papa
was to know nothing about these literary intimacies with gentlemen
under a cloud.
[Sidenote: GOES TO COURT.]
We may be tolerably certain too, that had the Duke known all that his
wife knew of Messer Peregrino Morato, he would not have permitted
another step, which that lady took about the time of which we are
speaking, very soon after the return of Morato,—that is, and in all
probability not later than 1540. This was the invitation of Olympia to
court, to be the companion of her daughter, and sharer in her studies.
Renée well knew the power of emulation; and in her eagerness to
stimulate the efforts of her daughter, she determined to place beside
her one, just five years older than herself, of whose wonderful talents
and acquirements all Ferrara was talking.
So in, or very near about, 1540, Olympia left her father's humble home
and went to be an inmate of the court, in the dissenting interest, or
female side of the house. For dissension and dispute were ever more and
more openly manifesting themselves in that splendid dwelling. The Duke
and his councillors, lay and ecclesiastical, were becoming from day to
day more jealously and suspiciously orthodox; as tidings from all parts
of Italy showed that the Church was becoming alive to the dangers which
threatened it from the new ideas, and, having once realised this fact,
was suddenly convinced of their heretical nature, and determined to
exert its utmost power to extinguish them by violence.
Paul III., a politic and worldly wise old man, with considerable
desire to do such parts of a Pope's duty as could be accomplished
without interfering with his own projects and schemes of ambition, was
quite as much minded as any member of the sacred college to preserve
intact to Rome its bishops and high priests, the monopoly of those
sacerdotal emoluments and perquisites, which sacramental Christianity
was contrived to afford in abundance. Pius IX., a better man, as
living in better times than Paul III., found himself in front of the
same eternal difficulty. All hope and project of reform had to be
abandoned before the too–evident incompatibility of the fundamental
sine–quâ–non condition, that "I transmit to my successors intact the
power I have received from my predecessors." Thorough reform on the
condition, that nothing shall be changed! Poor Pius! So once again
Holy Church had to return to its vomit of St. Angelo and Paliano
prisons, arbitrary arrests, immaculate conceptions, winking virgins,
and concordats. And mankind finding finally, all hope of curing the
cancer vain, has to screw its courage to the truly painful and terrible
operation of excision;—as mankind silently and with naturally reluctant
procrastination, is even now doing.
Paul III. was as free from persecuting instincts as Pius IX. He had
been a man of the world, was the father of children, and had a natural
human heart within his bosom. But at his elbow stood one, who was all
priest. No merciful weakness, no natural affection, no human sympathy,
no shade of misgiving, ever checked John Peter Caraffa in his crusade
against free human thought. When Paul was doubtfully deliberating what
measures might best be adopted to check the progress of heresy in
Italy, Caraffa promptly decided for him, that the Inquisition was the
one thing wanted,—the Inquisition with fullest powers of imprisonment,
confiscation, and death, and he himself as Chief Inquisitor,—this, by
God's help, and that of fire and sword, and nothing else than this,
would succeed in victoriously crushing and extirpating hydra–headed
heresy. On the 21st of July, 1542, the requisite bull was obtained
from Paul III., and Caraffa rushed to his work, with the avidity of an
unleashed hound on his prey.
[Sidenote: RENÉE'S TROUBLES.]
Such signs of the times were not lost upon Duke Hercules, and
reproduced themselves in sundry painful forms in the interior of the
palace. The Duchess is still found to have about her persons "of very
unwholesome smell;"[53] the flock of them have to be overhauled by the
Duke's new Jesuit director, Pelletario, and all those found "with the
rot upon them" are got rid of. A powerful stream of pure doctrine was
turned on upon the infected Duchess, and sacraments were prescribed
without much success. The "miserable woman" is found with flesh–meat
on her table on a Friday; and the justly exasperated Duke, at his
wits' end, has to shut her up in her apartment, with two attendants
only, and send her daughters to a convent. "Now, though Renée was
very astute," writes the historian, "far more so than the Duke and
all his counsellors, yet it is not permissible to attribute wholly
to her cunning the surprising conversion that was operated in her,
immediately after she was shut up."[54] The imprisoned lady, under
plainly miraculous influence, sent suddenly for her husband's priest,
made a full confession, placed her conscience entirely in his keeping,
and asked for the sacrament from his hands. So efficacious a spiritual
agent is a little persecution, that astute as the patient was, and
temporary as the conversion was proved in the sequel, the historian
cannot believe but that some genuine spiritual effect was produced by
it.
It at all events had the effect of releasing Renée from her durance,
and restoring her daughters to her. For the Duke, delighted at the
success of his discipline, "admitted her to sup with him that same
evening."
But amid all this, in a family so constituted, and living under such
conditions, young Olympia must have been placed at times in strange
positions, have witnessed some suggestive scenes, and altogether have
had offered to her ripening intelligence matter for meditation on many
things. As to the disputed points, and antagonistic principles and
prejudices, which lay at the root of all these jars and difficulties,
she seems to have been at that time effectually preserved against all
the dangers of partizanship by thorough indifference to the whole
subject. The arrangement by which she had become a resident at the
court was to her a subject of unmixed rejoicing and exultation. The
household duties which the narrow circumstances of her father's home
had imposed upon her, had occasioned many a sigh over the hours thus
lost to her beloved studies. Now her whole life was to be devoted
under the most favourable circumstances to the prosecution of them.
"Henceforward," writes Calcagnini in a letter to her, "you may give
yourself up to your favourite pursuits, change the distaff for the
pen, house linen for books, and the exercise of the fingers for that
of the mind.... It will now be for you to preserve without flaw the
good gifts which you have received from your parents—modesty, candour,
and virtuous principles, and to add to them wisdom, elegance,
high–mindedness, and contempt for all that is base."[55]
[Sidenote: FIRST COMPOSITIONS.]
She was, moreover, still to be under the tuition of her father in the
palace, and was to share with the Princess Anne the Greek lessons of
Sinapi.
Several specimens have been preserved of her compositions about this
time, which indicate a very remarkable amount of acquirement. Various
passages have have been quoted by her biographers with perhaps more of
admiration than they merit. They were received by her contemporaries
with the most unbounded and hyperbolical applause; and the modern
narrators of her career seem to have taken the tone of the high–flown
eulogies of these productions which they have found on record. But in
reading things of this kind, of Cisalpine production, much allowance
must always be made for the prevalent habit of undiscriminating and
exaggerated laudation, arising from the ever–present influence of
municipal rivalry. The "nul aura de l'esprit, hors nous et nos amis,"
principle was always at work. To a Ferrara man, Olympia was _our_
Olympia,—"gloria Ferraræ; patriæ decus," &c., and was to be made the
most of accordingly. But, secondly, still more allowance must be made
for the strong tendency of the literary culture of that period in
Italy to regard the form rather than the matter. Artistic love for
the beauties of language leads the literary world of Italy, even at
the present day, to attach an undue measure of importance to diction
and style, at the expense of subject–matter. And at the flood–tide of
the classical mania of the sixteenth century, correctness of classic
phraseology, and perfection of mimicry of the ancients, was the alpha
and omega of excellence.
And in these respects the writings of Olympia are truly remarkable.
The amount of acquaintance with the classics then most in vogue, the
familiarity with their modes of thinking, and the mastery of their
language, attained by a girl of from fourteen to sixteen, are really
astonishing. Thus we have an essay on Mutius Scævola in Greek; a
defence of Cicero against some of his detractors; and, more remarkable
still, lectures (!) on the paradoxes of that author.
Of the whole picture, such as we are able to realise it, of this
bright and beautiful Olympia, ambitious of praise, triumphant, full of
fervid poetic enthusiasm, and love of the beautiful, enchanting all
eyes, and charming all ears,—approaching, one may fancy, in social
position, some Siddons or Mars more nearly than any other existence
known to our times; of the whole picture, these public lectures, or
declamations, seem to our notions the strangest feature. Let the
inmates of our "Establishments," "Colleges," "Academies," of the most
finished and "finishing" category, picture to themselves a young lady
of sixteen called on to lecture before an audience, composed of all
the court circle, and most learned Dons of Ferrara, on the Paradoxes
of Cicero!—improvising her declamation, too, in Latin and Greek, if we
may believe her friend Curio, writing many years afterwards, with the
enthusiastic admiration of these exhibitions still strong within him.
"Then," writes he, "we used to hear her declaiming in Latin,
improvising in Greek, explaining the paradoxes of the greatest orators,
and answering to all the questions addressed to her."[56]
[Sidenote: MORATO'S PRECEPTS.]
It is evident that these public performances were considered among the
most important and valuable parts of a complete education, from the
instructions still extant, which Morato gave in writing to his daughter
about the time when she left his roof to reside under that of Duchess
Renée.
Here are some of the admonitions which a fond and anxious father
deemed most important to be impressed on a daughter about to leave her
paternal roof for the first time.
"A matron, before leaving her bower, consults her mirror and her
favourite maid to know with what look and air she is about to appear in
society. The human voice ought to act in like manner. A speaker should
use his lips as bridles to his words, raising or lowering his tones,
and giving them delicacy or sonority as he opens his lips more or less.
"Virgil, Cæsar, Brutus, Cicero, excelled in the art of elocution.
Minerva, Mercury, the Muses, the harmony of the spheres, the chords of
the lyre, Apollo, the king of song, echo, which repeats our voices,—are
not all these images of the multiplicity of tone of which the human
voice is capable? What man does not listen with pleasure to accents
pure and harmonious? The guardian of the infernal gate, Cerberus
himself, is appeased by them. The wheel of Ixion at the sound of a
sweet voice stands still!"
Humph! It does not quite please one!—rings mighty hollow, at least on
the Teutonic ear, all this about Minerva, Mercury, Apollo, king of
song, and the wheel of Ixion! Was that worthy old sixteenth–century
schoolmaster really and truly scooped and hollowed out by perpetual
droppings from Helicon into an empty shell resounding classicalities,
and mere togaed simulacrum of a Roman of the Augustan age? To the
Teutonic imagination, the picture thus far realised of our Olympia,
seems to present an altogether scenic personage, prepared for
purposes of representation, slender, graceful figure, draped in long
white muslin robes, with beautifully eloquent upraised arm, "Andres
athenaioi" on her lovely lips, and background of gleaming marble
porticoes, and grey–green olive groves behind,—the cloudless blue
above, and bluer Egean in the distance! A truly charming picture! And
yet this nineteenth century of ours would be sorely puzzled to what
good use to put the original, if we had her among us, for any other
than mere academic drawing–school purposes.
Not a principal "in any establishment," of howsoever slight "finishing"
pretensions, but would at once, on most cursory examination, pronounce
our poor Olympia an entire failure as a specimen of female education, a
mistake from beginning to end, good only as an example of what should
be avoided.
Several of the lectures, or declamations, pronounced by her before the
learned world of Ferrara, have been preserved. Here is a specimen of
the introductory portion of one of them.[57]
"I well know the rarely equalled benevolence of my audience; yet the
timidity natural to my age, joined to the feebleness of my talents,
fills me with reasonable alarm. I tremble, and remain voiceless, like
the rhetorician who steps up to the altar at Lyons[58]—
"'Ceu Lugdunensem rhetor dicturus ad aram.'
"However, you command, and I will obey; for no sacrifice is more
agreeable to God than that of a willing obedience. I submit myself,
therefore, to this trial for the third time, like an artist unskilled
in his art, who can make nothing of a coarse–grained marble. But if
you offer a block of Parian to his chisel, he will no longer deem his
work valueless. The beauty of the material will give value to his
production. Perhaps it will be so with mine. There are strains so rich
in melody and harmony, that even when reproduced by the most miserable
instrument, they yet retain all their charm. Such are the words of my
favourite author. Listen to them. They will lose nothing of their grace
and majesty even in passing from my lips."
[Sidenote: PUBLIC DECLAMATION.]
Those who were present at those performances thought that the words
gained much, on the contrary, in passing from those lips. Nothing seems
to have excited the admiration and approbation of her contemporaries
more than these public declamations. "One might have fancied that one
was listening to one of the learned virgins of Greece or Rome, to whom,
indeed, she may be justly compared!"[59] cries one enthusiastic hearer.
"The young girls of thy age," writes another, "pluck spring flowers
from the meadows to weave them into many–coloured chaplets. But thou
gatherest no flowerets doomed ere long to fade and die, but selectest
the immortal amaranths from the abounding gardens of the Muses, whose
altogether divine privilege it is never more to wither, but gain beauty
from time, and flourish ever more greenly as it passes."[60]
Poor old Giraldi sends her Latin verses from his gout–tormented bed.
"Thou'rt all fair and brightly glowest,
As in years and lore thou growest,
In the Virtue's court, young maid,
Which Renée's fair virgins tread,
And the sister Muses nine.
Happy he, whom speech of thine
Warms and gladdens! happier yet
Parents that did thee beget,
And named Olympia! happiest he—
Should fate to man such bliss decree—
Whose bride thou shalt consent to be.
And e'en I, though old 'tis true,
Have my share of pleasure too,
While to soothe my gouty pains
Such a damsel's smile remains."[61]
To all this homage was added the affectionate kindness and liking of
the Duchess, Olympia's sovereign and mistress. She had, apparently
after she had been at the court about a couple of years, an illness
which made it desirable for her to return to her father's house, though
it was with difficulty, we are told,[62] that Renée could make up her
mind to part with her. Her absence was not long, and the following
letter from the Greek professor, John Sinapi (he too, be it observed,
in passing, "of very unwholesome smell;" so vain were poor Duke
Hercules' efforts to keep a purely orthodox household), indicates the
high place occupied by Olympia in the favour of the court.
"All here are greatly delighted to know that you are re–established and
out of the doctor's hands. Settle at once with your father the day and
the manner of your return among us. The Princess has declared that it
will be a great pleasure to her to see you again, be it brought about
how it may. She places at your disposition the litter in which you were
carried to your father's house. Only arrange with your father your
return, in whatever manner you may find most agreeable and speediest."
[Sidenote: SPOILING.]
With her companion and fellow–student, the Princess Anne, she lived on
terms of the most affectionate intimacy. A durable friendship grew up
between them; and a letter written many years afterwards by Olympia to
her old playmate, gives a pleasing idea of the sort of companionship
which existed between the two young girls.
"You remember," she writes, "how familiarly we lived together,
notwithstanding you were my sovereign and liege lady, and for how many
years the companionship lasted; how all our studies were in common, and
how the pursuit of them continually increased the affection which had
grown up between us."
Surely here was enough to "spoil" any young lady in her teens, if
homage, flattery, applause, admiration, excited and gratified vanity,
had spoiling power!
And Olympia stepped upon the pedestal set for her with all the youthful
audacity of conscious genius. They all told her, that she was a tenth
muse, and she accepted the part with exulting confidence, that it was
in truth that for which kind nature had best fitted her. Hear her own
joyous profession of faith, as standing there in the pride and grace of
her beauty before a courtly, gay, and learned circle, she mouthed it
forth in sonorous Greek verse, harmoniously flowing with the pure young
voice amid a burst of enthusiastic applause, the echoes of which have
sounded across three hundred years.
Done into homely English the rhymes fall sadly flat. But the meaning
may correctly be gathered as thus:[63]
"No joy is still a joy to all mankind,
For Jove hath given to each a different mind!
Castor and Pollux by a different aim,
Though twin–born brothers, seek the path to fame.
And I, though woman, womanly gear have left,
Distaff and threads, and work–basket and weft!
The Muses' haunts, Parnassus' flowery hill,
These have been all my joy, these shall be still.
For other pleasures other maids have sighed,
These are my glory, these my joy and pride."
The hexameters and pentameters are quite as good, and no better, than
our English schools, after sufficient years spent in minutely copying
from the model, can supply, if need were, in any quantity to order.
Poor Olympia! The highly competent principle of that finishing
establishment, to whose experienced judgment we have already had
occasion to refer, would arch her awful brows more highly than ever
over her gold double eye–glasses, it is to be feared, at these
shockingly unfeminine sentiments, _τἁ θηλυκἁ λεϊπον_," "taken leave
of your feminalities"! Miss Morata! If I am rightly informed of your
meaning, unhappily it would indeed seem so! A very unfortunately
situated young woman! Altogether devoid too of religious principle, as
I am told; and as indeed might have been guessed without telling!
Not improbably there may have been ladies too in Ferrara who commented
on the young muse much to the same purpose. But Olympia trod her bright
path exultingly, scattering poesies and gathering triumphs, serenely
indifferent to the justification quarrels, and free–will perplexities
which were distracting the world around her, serenely worshipping
beauty amid her muse–haunted attic shades in undeniably heathenish and
pagan fashion.
[Sidenote: FEMINALITIES RECOVERABLE.]
Poor Olympia! "Malignant fate sate by and smiled." But some better
ruler of the destinies than any malignant fate smiled also. The
"Theluka" were after all not left very far behind. They will all be
forthcoming in due time, these saucily abused feminalities, at the
quickening trumpet–blast of the fairy knight appointed to the adventure
of breathing the soul of womanhood into our Undine–like muse.