OLDER than the authenticated history of Greek art is a tradition that connects a girl's name with the discovery of a great craft, the craft of modelling portraits in relief. Kora, known as the virgin of Corinth, and daughter of a potter named Butades, sat one evening with her betrothed in her father's house; a torch burned, a fire of wood bickered in a brasier, throwing on the wall in shadow a clear silhouette of the young man's profile; and Kora, moved by a sudden impulse, took from the hearth a charred piece of wood and outlined the shadow. When the girl's father, Butades, saw the sketch which she had made, he filled in the outline with his potters' clay, forming the first medallion.
It is a pretty, chivalrous tradition, and it recalls to one's memory the fact that the ancient Greeks had really some women artists of note, like Aristarete, daughter and pupil of Nearchus, celebrated for her picture of Aesculapius; or like Anaxandra (about B.C. 228), daughter of the painter Nealces, or like Helena, who painted the battle of Issus, about B.C. 333.
Passing from Greece to ancient Rome, we find only one woman painter, Lala by name, and she was a Greek by birth and education. Lala lived and laboured in the first century before the birth of Christ. She went to Rome during the last days of the republic, and won for herself a great reputation by her miniature portraits of ladies.
As the early Christians turned away from all luxury and adornment, the influence of Christ's life was very slow in gaining its benign ascendency in the arts; but among the civilisations which were founded on the ruins of Rome's decline and fall, there were some women who still deserve to be remembered for their patronage of art. Amalasontha, daughter of Theodoric the Great, Theodelinda, Queen of the Lombards, Hroswitha, in her convent at Gandershein, and Ava, the first German poetess, these ladies, and many others, made colonising names, names that visited distant lands and gave ambition to other women.
Briefly, the Renaissance was heralded by a long, troubled dawn; but it came at last, and its effects on the destinies of women were immediate and far-reaching. In Italy, one by one, the Universities were opened to the fair, that of Bologna leading the way in the 13th century, when Betisia Gozzadini studied there with success, dressed as a boy, like Plato's pupil, Axiothea. And a line of girl graduates connects Betisia Gozzadini with the women lecturers who became so famous at Bologna in the 18th century: Anna Manzolini, Laura Bassi, Clotilde Tambroni, Maria Agnesi, and Maria Dalle-Donne.
It is not easy to explain why the Italian towns and universities gave so much encouragement to the higher aspirations of girls. In poetry, in art, in learning, that encouragement was equally remarkable, and I am tempted to assign its origin to the martial temper of the Middle Ages, which drew many young men from the universities to take part in the exercises of the tilt-yard or in the perils of the battlefield, leaving the fields of learning in need of zealous labourers. Women, on the other hand, exposed their hearts, but not their lives, to the hazards of duels, tournaments and wars; they lived longer than men, as a rule, and hence it was worth while to encourage publicly those gifts of the female mind and spirit which had long been cultivated privately for the benefit of peaceful nunneries.
Still, whatever the origin of it may have been, the pride taken by the Italians in their gifted women is among the most important facts in the history of their Renaissance. But for that pride, the scores of ladies who became noted in the arts would have remained unknown in their homes, and the story of those times would lack in its social life a counterpart of that radiant chivalry that cast so much tenderness and sanctity about the Motherhood of Mary and the Infancy of Jesus Christ.
As this chapter is nothing more than a brief introduction to the study of a very important subject, I can say only a few words about the different groups of painters into which the women artists of Italy are divided, beginning with the early nuns, whose art was not so much a craft as a confession of faith.
Caterina Vigri was the earliest of these nuns, and the picture by which she is represented on page [33], "St. Ursula and her Maidens," was painted in the year 1456. Not only is it typical of the young Bolognese school, but, despite the primitiveness of the drawing, it has two qualities in which the swift temperaments of women, so truth-telling in their emotions, commonly manifest themselves in art: the first is a certain naturalness of gesture and of pose; the second is an evident wish to impart life and liveliness to the faces, even although that liveliness and life may not accord with the subject in its higher spiritual significance. It is this natural wish of women to be homely and attractive that so frequently brings their art nearer to the people's sympathies than the work done by men; and if we study the four illustrations on pages [34] and [35], representing pictures by the Sienese nuns of Santa Marta, we shall see how motherly in tenderness was the feminine ideal of Christ's infancy. I can gain no information about Barbara Ragnoni and the two other sister nuns, whose names have passed into Time's limbo of forgotten things, and whom I have ventured to describe as Sister A. and Sister B. They were true artists, each one having a sweet graciousness of her own, playful, yet devout and reverent, devotional but not austere. In these pictures the maternal instincts are at play; the painters are so happy in their subject that their whole womanhood responds to it, making it a holy experience of their own glad hearts. There is much to admire also in the way in which the figures are grouped and co-ordinated; and how charming is that glympse of country painted by Barbara Ragnoni in her "Adoration of the Shepherds."