Woman in the golden ages

by Amelia Gere Mason

VI

Of scarcely less interest than Isabella d’Este is her sister Beatrice, the fresh, dark-eyed, dark-haired, gay, and laughing girl who went to Milan at fifteen as the bride of Lodovico Sforza, and died before she was twenty-two, after condensing the experiences of a lifetime in a few short years. This court has left the record of much sin and many tragedies, and it furnished some great princesses to the smaller and less imposing ones, but its literary glory was not so conspicuous as its splendor and its crimes. A court that numbered Bramante and Leonardo da Vinci among its stars, however, is not to be passed lightly. These colossal men were not easy to command, and prince as well as princess often appealed to them in vain. It is not likely that they gave much precious time to courtly pleasures, as the first order of genius thrives better in solitude or the sympathetic companionship of the few, though Leonardo was much sought after for his personal accomplishments. But the inspiration of an intelligent woman has more to do with the results of genius than an unthinking and altogether material world is apt to imagine. The Duchess Beatrice was the moving spirit at Milan when its greatest artists were creating the monuments that were to be its lasting glory. Under her critical eye, too, the architects, painters, sculptors, and decorators made the church and cloisters of Certosa things of imperishable beauty, happily unconscious that they were building and carving the tomb of the little lady who was so gracious and so appreciative.

These artistic tastes, which she shared with her sister, were inherited from her mother, and they were fostered in the court of her grandfather at Naples, where she spent her childhood. At Ferrara she was a trifle overshadowed by the more gifted and beautiful Isabella, but she still lived in a stimulating atmosphere. From a worldly point of view it was a brilliant prospect that opened before the young girl when she went away from classical Ferrara as the child-wife of a man she had never seen. On the personal side the clouds were dark, but that inner realm in which lies happiness or misery was never considered. The formidable Lodovico was certainly not good, but he had the cultivated tastes of his time, and magnificent projects, into which the small but clever duchess entered with enthusiasm. With grace, generosity, a fine intellect, and a singularly brave and vigorous character, she captivated at once the heart of the blasé prince, who had been none too well pleased with the policy of her coming. No one loved better the pageants, tournaments, and amusements of her age. No one rode more fearlessly, hunted with more zest, or danced with more pleasure. She pursued everything with the ardor of youth and a happy temperament. But her careful training had not been in vain. This fifteen-year-old wife reserved her leisure hours for serious things. She had a fine literary as well as artistic taste, and filled her cabinet with rare and costly books. It is common enough to collect costly books which are never read, but not so common for pleasure-loving girls to take delight in the masters of literature. Even in our enlightened day they are apt to prefer novels, and usually very poor ones. Doubtless the Duchess Beatrice had learned advisers, but she knew how to select them, which is in itself a talent. There were many men of letters about the court, and some of them read to her while she was busy with her needle, just as others used to do in the old days at Ferrara. They did not read the last romance, but great poems, sometimes the “Divine Comedy,” sometimes Petrarch, sometimes later verses, or histories. The grand Lodovico often stole in to listen, and gave thoughtful attention, especially to the greater master. Perhaps he recalled those happy moments in his sad captivity when the only thing he asked was a copy of Dante to while away the long and lonely hours in a French prison.

In the quiet summer days, among the groves and fountains of Vigevano or Pavia, when the dripping of the water and the rustling of the leaves made a sweet accompaniment for the strains of the orchestra that floated away past the tree-tops and lost themselves in the upper air, we find her listening to an animated discussion between Bramante and Gaspari Visconti on the relative merits of Dante and Petrarch, with her own sympathies on the side of the more spiritual poet. It was this same Visconti who said that the talents and virtues of the discriminating duchess surpassed those of the greatest women of antiquity. Giuliano de’ Medici also speaks of her as a woman of “wonderful parts.” Poets, artists, and singers flocked to her for patronage and recognition from many countries, sure of a generous sympathy.

Nor were her tastes and abilities limited to things gay, artistic, and literary. She had a clear head and a facile talent. When scarcely more than eighteen her husband sent her on a diplomatic mission to Venice, where she spoke with grace and dignity before the doge and seigniory on a matter of politics. No one questioned her modesty in doing so, and every one praised her wise and tactful eloquence. She confesses to a little tremulous apprehension, but writes in a naïve and artless way of her cordial reception by the councilors, also of the magnificent fêtes given in her honor.

In the troubled days of Milan, when the aspiring Lodovico proved weak and faint-hearted, it was his brave little wife who went with him to the camp, reconciled the differences among the officers, and inspired the soldiers with her own courage and enthusiasm. In the final crisis, at this time, it was still the young and fearless woman who took prompt measures to defend the city after her husband had fled and left her to bear all the burdens alone. It is not a question here whether he was right or wrong. The morals of politics were worse then, if possible, than they are now, and he had at least a powerful following. On a matter of public policy it is clear enough that she could not lead a party in opposition to him. What she thought we do not know, though her courage and her swift resources showed the quality of the woman.

Many were the sad hours this inconstant husband gave her, but when she was gone in the freshness of her innocent youth, he put himself and everything about him in sable, refused to be comforted, and mourned her the rest of his life. In spite of his wandering fancies, which she had the spirit to curb, he said that he loved her better than himself,—which, if true, was saying a great deal,—and that she had been his adored companion no less in the cares of State than in his hours of ease. That she shared his cruelties is not supposable from anything we know of her character, but it is certain that he owed to her taste and counsel much of his reputation as an enlightened ruler who crowned his city with the glories of art.

With her loss his star began to wane. “When the Duchess Beatrice died, everything fell into ruin. The court, which had been a paradise of joy, became a dark and gloomy inferno; poets and artists were forced to seek another place.” So writes a man of letters, in the last days of the fifteenth century, of a woman of twenty-one who had tried to make the richest and worst court in Italy a home for literature, art, and all that makes for the intellectual good of the race.

VII

If I have lingered a little over personal details in these brief sketches, it is the better to show the versatile character of the women who shed so much luster on the golden age of the Renaissance. Of the relative moral value of these representative women of their time I think there is little question, in spite of the fact that the age is so persistently quoted to prove that women degenerate in virtue as they advance in intelligence. That the tone of morality was very low, that vice was scarcely frowned upon, that men in power and out of it broke every commandment in the decalogue without compunction or even taking the trouble to put on a veil of respectability, and that a large class of women were swept into the vortex of corruption, is true enough. But it is also true that the strongest protest against this state of affairs was made by women, and that the few prelates who dared lift their voices against the scandals in high places numbered their most zealous assistants among them. To say nothing of the multitudes who cast their jewels and ornaments into the flames at the bidding of Savonarola, and consecrated themselves to a pure and simple if not ascetic life,—all of which may be set down to the account of emotionalism rather than intelligence,—it was the women most noted for talent and learning, whether princess, poet, or university professor, who were most honored for their virtues. The pure-minded Contarini found in Vittoria Colonna his strongest support in a hopeless struggle against the sins and corruptions of the church. Olympia Morata was a conspicuous example of great intellect and great learning put to the service of a bettered humanity at serious, indeed fatal, personal sacrifice. And she was not alone. There were numbers of these women—poets, scholars, and thinkers—who lived spotless lives and worked for the good of their sex and race.