The Burlington magazine

by Unknown

ISABELLA D’ESTE, MARCHIONESS OF MANTUA, 1474–1539. A Study of the Renaissance. By Julia Cartwright (Mrs. Ady). John Murray. 1903.

There are three ways of writing history which rejoice all serious readers and students. The first and best is, alas, rare, for it requires constructive imagination based on sound scholarship. It is the history which bestows upon the characters portrayed that quality which makes them live on in the reader’s mind like great myths. Gibbon’s ‘Julian,’ Mommsen’s ‘Hannibal,’ Carlyle’s ‘Voltaire,’ Creighton’s ‘Pius II’—to take a very few instances chosen at random—live on in our imaginations like the heroes of romance, like Don Quixote, or Julien Sorel, or the ‘Egoist.’ ¶ On the other hand, there is the work of the mere archivist, the conscientious finder and transcriber of documents, who leaves the imaginative reconstruction of character entirely to the reader. For this, too, the student cannot be too grateful. And then there is the via media of the gifted compiler, whose efforts are also welcome, provided they are honest and careful, and free from the taint of journalism. ¶ It is this middle path that Mrs. Ady is accustomed to take, and always with peculiar success in her biographies of women. Those who have already enjoyed her ‘Beatrice d’Este’ will be prepared for finding interest and pleasure in reading her account of that noble lady’s even more accomplished and more famous sister, Isabella, marchioness of Mantua, the leader for more than forty years of the most continuously brilliant and intellectual court in Italy. Mrs. Ady does not claim originality of research, but her task of weaving the documentary researches of others into a readable, accurate, and interesting account is extremely well done. It is true that she has no great or genial gifts for the presentment of character, but she knows at least how to describe it with the appropriate background of historical events and of court and family life. She has better taste than to make of it a lurid tale, as some popular writers would have done. Isabella is painted as the faithful and devoted wife and daughter and sister, the careful and affectionate mother—nay, even the doting grandmother—as well as the ‘prima donna del mondo,’ the Muse of poets and humanists, the patroness and friend of great artists, the confidante of popes and emperors, and the victim, too, of family and political tragedies. ¶ For us in this place, her interest lies chiefly in one aspect of her many activities—in her relations with the artists of her day. Her portrait was drawn by Leonardo, and painted by Mantegna, Titian, Francia, Costa, as well as by various artists of less importance, such as Maineri and Buonsignori, and her medal was cast in bronze by the sculptor Cristoforo Romano. She was a passionate collector of beautiful things, decorating her private apartment with pictures by Mantegna, Costa, and Perugino, and sending her emissaries over nearly the whole of Italy to extort from dilatory or overworked painters the fulfilment of commissions she had given them, getting now a Nativity from Giovanni Bellini, a Magdalen and a St. Jerome from Titian, Allegories from Correggio, portraits from Francia, and even from Raphael himself. She employed Timoteo Viti to make designs for her majolica dinner-service, and most of the northern sculptors of note were at one time or another set to work for her. Lorenzo da Pavia made her priceless viols and lutes of inlaid ivory and ebony, and Caradosso carved her a wonderful inkstand in ebony and silver, while the most famous glass-blowers and jewellers of her time contributed their best efforts to her matchless collection. But even dearer to her than contemporary art was the antique, and she spared no pains or expense, no wiles or selfishness, to get into her possession every available antique statue or fragment that she heard of. The collector’s passion was on her, and even her fine taste and that of her cultivated advisers did not always protect her from the collector’s misfortunes. In the light of recent revelations, it is amusing to hear how she was taken in by the forgeries of a certain Roman dealer who bore the splendid name of Raphael of Urbino, and how this shifty precursor of many an Italian ‘antiquario’ of to-day managed to get out of giving her back her money! ¶ Curiously enough, Isabella, although a fast friend of the Medicean popes and their relatives, seems to have taken no interest at all in the art of Florence, except in Michelangelo, and in Leonardo, who came to her, not from Florence, but from Milan. She sent to Florence, it is true, for a picture, but it was to Perugino she wrote, and not to any of the great Florentine masters. ¶ Mrs. Ady has tried to trace carefully the present whereabouts of Isabella’s portraits and possessions, but we miss in the index any assembling of her scattered remarks on this interesting subject. The Leonardo pastel sketch (reproduced as frontispiece to Vol. I, but wrongly described as red chalk) is well known in the Louvre; one of the Titians (the one copied by Rubens) she identifies in the collection of M. Leopold Goldschmid at Paris, while the other, in Vienna, is reproduced as the frontispiece to the second volume. As to the latter, she says it was painted by Titian after a portrait by Francia, itself not done from the life, but from sketches and descriptions. If this be indeed the one referred to, Titian has managed to give no hint of his obligation to the Bolognese master. The portrait by Maineri, a painter of Parma, the author suggests as being the same as that in Mrs. Alfred Morrison’s collection, exhibited at the Burlington Fine Arts Club in 1894; but she admits, on the other hand, that this portrait may be from the hand of Beltraffio, which indeed it clearly is. Although it has apparently not occurred to Mrs. Ady, is it not possible that the untraced portrait of Isabella painted by Costa, was, like so many of her treasures, bought for Charles I, and that it is the Portrait of a Lady which now hangs in Hampton Court (No. 295)? The face resembles the one he painted as Isabella’s in the Louvre Allegory, but, on the other hand, they are both so thoroughly Costa in every detail that neither can be called real portraits in the modern sense of the word. The objective photographic style of portraiture in vogue to-day was quite foreign to the habits of most Renaissance painters, who were satisfied, once they had found a type that suited them, to stick to it for everything—Madonnas, portraits of ladies, and allegorical figures, indifferently. ¶ Perhaps the most vivid part of Mrs. Ady’s book is her description of Isabella’s experiences in that fatal sack of Rome, which, as Erasmus wrote to her friend Sadoleto, was ‘not the ruin of one city, but of the whole world.’ Barricaded in the Palazzo Colonna with three thousand distressed souls under her care, Isabella, safe in the protection of her son, Ferrante, one of the leaders of the imperial forces, looked down from her windows with anguish upon the scenes of horror and vandalism enacted in the streets below. Her house was the only one in Rome that escaped, except the Cancelleria, which was occupied by Cardinal Colonna. But except for the irreparable destruction of so many of the world’s masterpieces of beauty, this and many another interesting incident in Isabella’s career belong rather to history than to art.

M. L.