Woman in the golden ages

by Amelia Gere Mason

I

We have heard of a man who, after writing two hundred volumes or so on various learned subjects, added a “Eulogy of Silence.” Among other curious things, he said that he was “never more with those he loved than when alone.” Men have sometimes been known to prefer society in this form, but women rarely; they like things in the concrete, and they like to talk about them. They may turn to a life of the spirit, but even this they do not care to live in solitude. There are few anchorets among them. In their exaltation, as in their pursuit of knowledge, they seek companionship.

Just how much women had to do with awakening the world from its long sleep we do not know, but they were very active in keeping it awake after it began to open its eyes. They mastered old languages, studied old manuscripts, held public discussions on classic themes, wrote verses, and entered with enthusiasm into the search for records that had been lying in the dust for a thousand years. But they did more than this: they revived the art of conversation and created society anew. Possibly this was the most distinct heritage they left to the coming ages.

If conversation did not reach its maturity in Italy, it had its brilliant youth there. Later it was taken up in France, spiced with Gallic wit, and raised to the dignity of a fine art; but it lost a little of its first seriousness. The accomplished princesses of the Renaissance, who raved over a new-found line of Plato or Socrates, and expatiated on the merits of a long-buried statue they had helped to unearth, recalled the famous circle of Aspasia and made social centers of their own. But they added a fresh and original flavor. One does not copy accurately after fifteen or twenty centuries, nor even after two or three; but we are safe in thinking that these groups of poets, statesmen, prelates, artists, wits, and litterateurs, who discussed the new life and thought, were not far behind their model in brilliancy. If the men were not so great, the world was older, the field of knowledge was wider, and there was more to talk about. Then, there was but one Aspasia. If there were lesser stars of her own sex, we do not know who they were. It was a brave woman, whatever her abilities may have been, if she had a reputation to lose, that would show her face in the society of those grand old Greeks who claimed the universe for themselves and made of her an insignificant vassal. But there was a multitude of women, both clever and learned, who added life and piquancy to the coteries of the Renaissance. Men were proud of the versatile wives and daughters who made their courts centers of light and learning; if they were without lettered tastes themselves, they were glad of the reflected glory. So, naturally, it was the ambition of every well-born girl to fit herself to shine in these brilliant circles, and every father who had a daughter of talent was conscious of possessing a treasure of great value upon which too much care could not be lavished.

It must not be thought, however, that the women who made their courts so famous were simply devotees of fashion, or the pretty toys of men’s caprices, any more than they were colorless saints of the household or cloister. They were not without high domestic and womanly virtues, but they had also intelligence, a grasp of affairs, masterly character, and the tact to make all these qualities available for the good of their families and society. They were versed not only in classic lore, but in the art of living. It was not weakness that constituted their charm; it was their symmetry and the fullness of their strength.

As we have already seen, it was an age of educated women. A lady was expected to understand Latin, at least, besides her own language, and Greek was a common acquirement. The earliest Greek grammar was written by the celebrated Lascaris for Ippolita Sforza, the wife of Alfonso and a ruling spirit at the lettered court of Naples. In her precocious childhood this brilliant princess made a collection of Latin apothegms, and a translation of Cicero’s “De Senectute,” which is said to be still preserved in a convent at Rome. Plato, Seneca, and other philosophers supplied the great ladies of four centuries ago with moral nutriment, and Cicero was studied as a model of style. With the exception of Vergil and parts of Horace, the Latin poets were too coarse, and Boccaccio was forbidden; but Dante was a favorite companion of leisure hours, and Petrarch, the high priest of Platonism, an idol. The “Lives of the Fathers” and the chronicles of the saints were antidotes to the worldliness of poets and historians. It was understood, however, that literary tastes must not interfere with prayers and an intelligent oversight of the household.

Of their talent for administration these versatile princesses gave ample evidence. They were constantly called upon to hold the reins of government when their husbands were absent, and ruled with great wisdom and skill. We do not hear that they talked much of their ability to do various things not usually included among a woman’s duties, but they did them at need as a matter of course. In affairs of delicate diplomacy they were of special value, also in questions pertaining to morals. It is interesting to know that this quarrelsome period had its peace societies, as well as our own, and that the Pacieri, which was organized to prevent litigation, was made up of men and women. Veronica Gambara used her influence and her pen in the interest of peace, also Vittoria Colonna, and many others.

Some of the women who ruled so ably, however, were of virile temper, and threw themselves with passionate energy into the storm and stress of affairs, though it was rarely, if ever, from choice. In an emergency they could ride fearlessly to the field of battle, or address a foreign council. It was to save her children’s heritage that Caterina Sforza defended the rocky fortress of Forli after the violent death of her husband. She was a picturesque figure, this imposing lady of fair face, golden hair, indomitable spirit, and fiery temper, as accomplished as she was beautiful and brave, who rode at the head of her troops, and graciously smiled upon the people, who loved her and were ready to die for her. As a lovely bride of fifteen she had made a triumphal entry into Rome, where she lived like a queen, and literally controlled the fate of every one who sought aid, promotion, or a place of her uncle, the formidable Sixtus IV, but she was destined to come to the front in many a stormy crisis. She was only twenty-two when the Pope died suddenly, but she took prompt possession of the castle of St. Angelo in the name of her absent husband, who was Commander of the Forces, and found there an asylum for her children until she could make terms that saved the family fortunes. No wonder the husband took her with him when he went to Venice, that he might avail himself of her swift and clear judgment in his delicate negotiations.

The history of this fifteenth-century heroine reads like the most improbable romance. With the daring of a man, she had the flexibility of a woman. If she could hold her own against an army and crush an enemy with inexorable decision, she could care for the wounded like a nurse. She danced as vigorously as she ruled, and did not disdain the arts of a coquette or a diplomatist. One and the most obscure of her three husbands she loved, but the others she served well. Of fear she was incapable. “I am used to grief; I am not afraid of it,” she wrote to her son from the solitary cell at Rome, where she was caged for a time by the terrible Borgia Pope in the fortress over which she had once ruled. But the careful, devoted mother, who was so full of energy, so generous to her friends, so courageous in war, so subtle in diplomacy, so dignified in misfortune, turned in her last years to spiritual things with the same ardor she had given to mundane ones. She had lived her life, and retired from its storms at thirty-nine. Then she gave herself to the austerities of a convent at Florence, still directing the education of her young children. If we do not approve of all the methods of this irrepressible woman of clear head and strong heart, we have to judge her by the standards of an age in which the directors of the world’s conscience scoffed at morality and gave the prizes of life to libertines and assassins. I quote her as one out of many, to show the firm quality and abounding vitality as well as the solid attainments of the women of this remarkable period.