In the first part of the thirteenth century two new orders for women grew up in connection with the recently founded orders of the Franciscans and Dominicans; the story of the foundation of the former sisterhood in particular is one of striking interest. This organization originated in 1212 and its members were called Les Clarisses, after Clara, the daughter of Favorino Seisso, a knight of Assisi. Clara, though rich and accustomed to a life of indolence and pleasure, was so moved by the preaching of Saint Francis, that she sent for this holy man and conversed with him at great length upon religious topics. Finally, after a short but natural hesitation, she made up her mind to take the veil and establish an order for women which should embody many of the ideas for which the Franciscan order stood. The Franciscans, in addition to the usual vows of chastity, poverty, and obedience, laid special stress upon preaching and ministry to the soul and body. After the conversion was complete, she was taken by Saint Francis and his brother, each one bearing a lighted taper, to the nearest convent, and there, in the dimly lighted chapel, the glittering garments of her high estate were laid upon the altar as she put on the sombre Franciscan garb and cut her beautiful hair.

In the fourteenth century the interest taken by women in the conventual life increased, and one of the most powerful influences in the religious life of the time was Catherine of Siena, a creature of light in the midst of the dark turmoil and strife which characterize this portion of Italian history. Catherine was the beautiful and high-minded daughter of a rich merchant of Siena, and at a very early age showed a decided inclination for the religious life. At the age of twelve she began to have visions and declared herself the bride of Christ; and through her firmness she overcame the opposition of her parents and the scorn of her friends, and made definite preparations for withdrawal from worldly things. A small cell was arranged for her use in her father's house, and there she would retire for prayer and meditation. At Siena, in 1365, at the age of eighteen, she entered a Dominican sisterhood of the third order, where she vowed to care for the poor, the sick, and for those in prison.

In 1374 she went out in the midst of the plague, not only nursing the sick, but preaching to the crowds in the street, giving them words of cheer and comfort, and to such effect—according to the testimony of a contemporary writer—that thousands were seen clustered about her, intent upon what she was saying. So great had her wisdom become that she was called upon to settle disputes, and invitations came for her to preach in many neighboring cities. Furthermore, on one occasion she was sent on the pope's business to Arezzo and Lucca.

At this time the popes were established in Avignon, in southern France, and thither she went on a visit in 1376. On her departure, the chief magistrate of Florence besought her influence with the pope, who had put him under the ban of the Church. At Avignon she was received with greatest consideration by the College of Cardinals, as well as by the pope, for all had confidence in her good sense and judgment. The story is told, however, that some of the prelates at the papal court, envious on account of her influence with the pope, and wishing to put her learning to the test, engaged her in a religious discussion, hoping to trip her in some matters of doctrine or Church history. But she reasoned with the best of them so calmly and with such evident knowledge, that they were compelled to acknowledge her great wisdom. In the fall of that same year, as the result of her arguments and representations, Pope Gregory XI. was induced to go back to Rome, the ancient seat of the Church. Catherine left Avignon before the time fixed for the pope's departure; but before returning to Siena, she went to Genoa, where several of her followers were very sick and in need of her care. There in Genoa, Gregory, on his way to Rome, stopped to visit her, being in need of further counsel. Such an act on the part of the pope is ample proof of her unusual ability and her influential position.

The pope once in Rome, she entreated him to bring peace to Italy. At his request, she went to Florence to restore order there. In that city, however, she found a populace hostile to the papal party, and her protests and entreaties were of little avail. Upon one occasion, the crowd demanded her life by fire or sword, and so fierce did their opposition become that even the pope's friends were afraid to give her shelter; it was only through her great calmness and fearlessness that her life was spared. Gregory's death followed soon after, and with his demise Catherine ceased to occupy so conspicuous a place in the public affairs of her time. Gregory's successor, Urban VI., was clever enough to summon Catherine to Rome again, that she might speak in his behalf and overcome the outspoken opposition and hostility of some of the cardinals, who had declared in favor of Clement VII. in his stead, and had even gone so far as to declare him elected. Catherine was not able to effect a conciliation, however, and here began the papal schism, as the discontented cardinals continued their opposition with renewed vigor and maintained Clement VII. as anti-pope. She was more successful in another affair, as, immediately after her trip to Rome, in 1378 she induced the rebellious Florentines to come to terms of peace with Urban.

The remaining two years of her life were spent in labors for her Dominican order, and she visited several cities in its behalf. At the time of her death, it was commonly reported that her body worked a number of miracles. The authenticity of these supernatural events, however, was ever somewhat in doubt, as the Franciscans always stoutly denied the claims that were made by the Dominicans in regard to this affair. Catherine was canonized in 1461, and April 30th is the special day in each year devoted to her memory. Among the other celebrated nuns and saints of the fourteenth century may be mentioned the Blessed Marina, who founded the cloister of Saint Matthew at Spoleta; the Blessed Cantuccia, a Benedictine abbess; and the Holy Humilitas, abbess of the Order of Vallombrosa at Florence; but none of them compare in pious works or in worldly reputation with the wise and hard-working Catherine of Siena.

In the fifteenth century there was a still further increase of the religious orders for both men and women, which came with the continual extension of the field of religious activity; for the mother Church was no laggard at this time, and never ceased to advance her own interests. In this general period there were three nuns in Italy, each bearing the name of Catherine, who by their saintly lives did much for the uplifting of those about them. The first of this trio was Catherine, daughter of Giovanni Vigeo. Though born in Ferrara, she was always spoken of as Catherine of Bologna, as it was in the latter city that she spent the greater part of her long and useful life. There she was for many years at the head of a prosperous convent belonging to the nuns of the Order of Clarissa, and there it was that she had her wonderful visions and dreamed the wonderful dreams, which she carefully wrote down with her own hand in the year 1438. For more than threescore years after this period of illumination she continued in her position, where she was ever an example of godliness and piety. Her death came on March 9, 1463; and although her great services to the cause of religion were recognized at this time, and openly commended by the pope, it was not until May 22, 1712, that she was finally canonized by Clement IX.

The second Catherine was Catherine of Pallanza, which is a little town near Novara in Piedmont, some thirty miles west of Milan. During the year of the great pest, her immediate family was completely wiped away, and she was left homeless and with few friends to guide her with words of counsel. Her nearest relatives were in Milan, and to them she went at first, until the first bitterness of her great grief had passed away. Then, acting upon a decision which had long been made, and in spite of the determined opposition of her friends, she took the veil. It was not her intention, however, to enter one of the convents of Milan and live the religious life in close contact with others of the same inclination, for she was a recluse by disposition and desired, for at least a time, to be left alone in her meditations. So she went outside the city walls and established herself there upon a hillside, in a lonely place, sheltered by a rude hut constructed in part by her own hands. Living in this hermit fashion, she was soon an object of comment, and, moved by her obvious goodness, many went to consult her from time to time in regard to their affairs. She soon developed a gift of divination and prophecy which was remarkable even for that time of easy credulity in such matters, and was soon able to work wonders which, if the traditions be true, were little short of miracles. As an illustration of her wonderful power, it may be stated that it was commonly believed that by means of her prayers children might be born in families where hitherto a marriage had been without fruit. Also, she was able by means of her persuasions to compel thieves to return stolen goods. In spite of the seclusion of her life, the fame of Catherine of Pallanza was soon so great that other women came to live about her; eventually these were banded together in one congregation, governed according to the rules of Saint Augustine. Catherine died in 1478, at the age of forty-one, and somewhat later she was given a place among the saints of the Church, April 6th being the special day devoted to her honor.

There can be little doubt that Saint Catherine of Pallanza, in her comparatively short life, really did more for the cause of true religion than did the pious Saint Catherine of Bologna, who lived almost twice as long within the walls of her quiet and tranquil convent. The one, though a recluse at the beginning of her career, came more into actual contact with people and things than did the smooth-faced, white-handed mother superior in all the course of her calm and unruffled existence. Catherine of Bologna was a model nun, a paragon of humility, devotion, and holiness, but she was something quite apart from the stirring life of the time. Her visions and trances were considered as closer ties between herself and the hosts of heaven, and she was looked upon with awe and wonderment. Catherine of Pallanza, by word and by precept, and by means of the wonderful power which she possessed, exerted a far wider influence for the good of men and women.

Catherine of Genoa, the third of this series, and a member of the old and distinguished Fieschi family, was born in 1447. Notwithstanding her decided wish to enter a convent, and in spite of her repeated protestations, she was compelled to marry, at the age of seventeen, Julio Adorno, a man of tastes uncongenial to her. On account of her slender figure and her delicate health, her parents had felt warranted in their refusal to allow her to become a nun, but the husband of their choice proved a greater trial to her strength and temper than the cloister would have been. After ten years of suffering and brutal neglect, Catherine became the mistress of her own fortunes, for at this time her husband had the good grace to die. With an ample fortune at her command, she was not slow to put it to some public good; and she at once devoted her time and energies to the great hospital at Genoa, which was sadly in need of such aid. In those days before the advent of the trained nurse, the presence of such a woman in such a place was unquestionably a source of great aid and comfort, both directly and indirectly. Nor did she confine her favors to the inmates of this great hospital, for she went about in the poorer quarters of the city, caring for the sick wherever they were to be found. When alone, she was much given to mystic contemplations, which took shape as dialogues between the body and soul and which were later published with a treatise on the Theology of Love and a complete life of this noble woman. She died at the age of sixty-three, on September 14, 1510.

The careers of these three women illustrate in a very satisfactory way the various channels through which the religious life of the time found its expression. The life of Catherine of Bologna was practically apart from the real life of her time; Catherine of Pallanza was sought out by people who were in need of her help, and she was able to give them wise counsel; Catherine of Genoa, representing the more practical side of the Christian spirit, went among the poor, the sick, and the needy, doing good on every hand. Membership in these women's orders was looked upon as a special and sacred office whereby the nun became the mystic bride of the Church, and it was no uncommon thing for the sisters, when racked and tortured by the temptations of the world, to fall into these ecstatic contemplative moods wherein they became possessed with powers beyond those of earth. In that age of quite universal ignorance, it is not to be wondered at that the emotional spirit was too strongly developed in all religious observances, and, as we have seen, it characterized, equally, the convent nun, the priestess of the mountain side, and the sister of mercy. The hysterical element, however, was often too strongly accentuated, and the nuns were often too intent upon their own salvation to give heed to the needs of those about them. But the sum total of their influence was for the best, and the examples of moderation, self-control, and self-sacrifice which they afforded played no little part in softening the crudities of mediaeval life and paved the way for that day when religion was to become a rule of action as well as an article of faith.



Chapter IV

The Women of the Midi

It must have been part of the plan of the universe that the sunny southern provinces of France should have given to the world a gay, happy, and intellectual society wherein was seen for the first time a concrete beginning in matters of social evolution. There the sky is bright, the heavens are deep, the sun is warm, mountainous hills lend a purple haze to the horizon, and the air is filled with the sweet perfume of thyme and lavender; and there came to its maturity that brilliant life of the Midi which has been so often told in song and story, and which furnished inspiration for that wonderful poetry which has come down to us from the troubadours. During the twelfth and thirteenth centuries in particular, Provence was filled with rich and populous cities, brilliant feudal courts abounded, and noble lords and ladies not only encouraged song and poetry, but strove to become proficient in the gay science, as it was called, for their own diversion.

Under such conditions, it is not surprising to find that women occupy no unimportant place in society and that their influence is far-reaching. Love and its pursuit were the chief concern of the upper classes; and it was but natural, when the intellectual condition of the time and its many limitations are taken into consideration. What was there to consume the leisure hours in that far-away time? There were no books, there were no newspapers, as there are now, accurate knowledge was impossible in scientific study, there was no theatre or opera—in short, there were none of the things which form the usual means of relaxation and amusement to-day; and so, as a matter of course, yielding to a most human instinct, the tender passion became an all-absorbing topic, and served without exception as the inspiration for poetic endeavor. Love they could know and feel, and of it could they sing with understanding, because they felt it to be real and personal, and subjectively true at least. Of the great external world, however, their knowledge was exceedingly crude; and the facts in nature had become so strangely distorted, through centuries of ignorance and superstition, that the solemnly pronounced verities of the time were but a burlesque upon the truth. Belief in the existence of the antipodes was considered by ecclesiastical authority as a sure proof of heresy, the philosopher's stone had been found, astrology was an infallible science, and the air was filled with demons who were ever waiting for an opportunity to steal away man's immortal soul. Geography did not exist except in fancy; history could be summed up in the three magic words, Troy, Greece, and Rome; and the general notions current regarding the world and its formation were fantastic in the extreme. In the realm of natural history wondrous facts had come to light, and it was averred that a stag lived to an age of nine hundred years; that a dove contemplated herself with her right eye and God with her left; that the cockatrice kills animals by breathing upon them; that a viper fears to gaze upon a naked man; that the nature of the wolf is such that if the man sees him first, the wolf is deprived of force and vigor, but if the wolf first sees the man, his power of speech will vanish in the twinkling of an eye. Furthermore, there were curious ideas current concerning the mystic power of precious stones, and many were the lapidaries which were written for the edification of the credulous world. The diamond was held in somewhat doubtful esteem, inasmuch as the French word diamant, minus its first syllable, signified a "lover"; the beryl, of uncertain hue, made sure the love of man and wife; and Marbodus is authority for the statement that "the emerald is found only in a dry and uninhabitable country, so bitterly cold that nothing can live there but the griffins and the one-eyed arimasps that fight with them."

But the men and women of Provence could not forever stand with mouths agape in eager wonder and expectation; these were tales of interest, no doubt, and their truth was not seriously questioned, but this was not life, and they knew it. There was red blood in their veins, the heartbeat was quick and strong, and love had charmed them all. It must not be supposed, however, that this was a weakly and effeminate age, that all were carpet knights, and that strong and virile men no longer could be found, for such was not the case. All was movement and action, the interests of life were many, and warfare was the masculine vocation, but in the very midst of all this turmoil and confusion there sprang up a courtly ideal of love and a reverence for women which is almost without parallel. The sanctity of the marriage tie had not been respected during the feudal days, the union for life between men and women had, generally, other causes than any mutual love which might exist between the two, and the right of divorce was shamefully misused. While in other parts of Europe women sought relief from this intolerable condition of affairs by giving their love to Christ and by becoming His bride in mystic marriage through the Church, in bright Provence, aided by the order of chivalry, they were able to do something for the ideals of love in a more definite way and to bring back to earth that all-absorbing passion which women had been bestowing upon the Lord of Heaven. Inasmuch as the real marriage of the time was but a mariage de convenance, which gave the wife to the husband without regard for her own inclinations, and without consideration for the finer things of sense and sentiment which should find a perfect harmony in such relationship, it came to be a well-recognized fact that love and marriage were two things quite distinct and different. A wife was expected to show a material fidelity to her lord, keep her honor unstained, and devote herself to his service; and this done, she was allowed to bestow upon a lover her soul and better spirit.

A quaint story with regard to the Chevalier de Bayard, though of somewhat later date, will serve to illustrate this condition of affairs. The brave knight had been brought up during his youth in the palace of the Duke of Savoy, and there, mingling with the other young people of the house, he had seen and soon loved a beautiful young girl who was in the service of the duchess. This love was returned, and they would soon have married in spite of their poverty if a cruel fate had not parted them. Bayard was sent as a page to the court of Charles VIII., and during his absence his ladylove, by the duke's order, was married to the Lord of Fluxas. This Bayard found out to his bitter sorrow when he returned some years later, but the lady, as a virtuous woman, wishing to show him that her honest affection for him was still alive, overwhelmed him with so many courteous acts that more would have been impossible. "Monseigneur de Bayard, my friend," she said, "this is the home of your youth, and it would be but sorry treatment if you should fail to show us here your knightly skill, reports of which have come from Italy and France." The poor gentleman could but reply: "What is your wish, madame?" Whereat she said: "It seems to me, Monseigneur de Bayard, that you would do well to give a splendid tourney in the city." "Madame," he said, "it shall be done. You are the lady in this world who first conquered my heart to her service, but now I well know that I can naught expect except your kiss of welcome and the touch of your soft hand. Death would I prefer to your dishonor, and that I do not seek; but give me, I pray you, your muff." The next morning heralds proclaimed that the lists would be opened in Carignan, and that the Chevalier de Bayard would joust with all who might appear, the prize to be his lady's muff, from which now hung a precious ruby worth a hundred ducats. The lists were run, and after the last blare of trumpet and clatter of charger's hoof, the two judges, one of them being the Lord of Fluxas, came to Bayard with the prize. He, blushing, refused this great honor, saying he had done nothing worthy of it, but that in all truth it belonged to Madame de Fluxas, who had lent him the muff and who had been his inspiration. The Lord of Fluxas, knowing the chivalry of this great knight, felt no pang of jealousy whatever, and went straightway to his lady, bearing the prize and the courtly words of the champion. Madame de Fluxas, with secret joy but outward calm, replied: "Monseigneur de Bayard has honored me with his fair speech and highbred courtesy, and this muff will I ever keep in honor of him." That night there was feasting and dancing in the halls, next day, departure. The knight went to take leave of his lady, with heavy heart, and many bitter tears they shed. This honest love endured until death parted them, and no year passed that presents were not exchanged between them.

So there was a social life at this time and place which was filled with refinement and courtesy, and it centred about the ladies of the courts. Each troubadour, and many of them were brave knights as well, sought to sing the praises of his lady, devote himself to her service, and do her bidding in all things great and small. There was a proverb in Provence, it is true, which declared that "A man's shadow is worth a hundred women," and another saying, "Water spoils wine, carts spoil roads, and women spoil men"; but, in spite of all this, devotion to women was developed to a most unusual degree, and there was even an attempt made to fix the nature of such soft bondage by rule and regulation. Southern natures were so impetuous that some checks upon the practice of this chivalric love seemed to be imperative, as thinking people felt that love should not go unbridled. Justin H. Smith, who has written so entertainingly of the Troubadours at Home, says that it was their expedient to make love a "science and an art. Rules were devised, and passion was to be bound with a rigid etiquette like that of chivalry or social intercourse. It was to be mainly an affair of sentiment and honor, not wholly Platonic to be sure, but thoroughly desensualized. Four stages were marked off in the lover's progress: first, he adored for a season without venturing to confess it; secondly, he adored as a mere suppliant; thirdly, he adored as one who knew that the lady was not indifferent; and finally, he became the accepted lover, that is to say, the chosen servitor and vassal of his lady, her special knight."

To the coarse and somewhat stupid barons of the time infidelity was an act of absolute self-abandonment, and they felt in no way jealous of these fine knights who were more in sympathy with their wives than they could ever hope to be. So the lover became an accepted person who had rights which the wife did not conceal and which the husband did not deny. The husband literally owned the body of his wife, it is true, but the lover had her soul, for the feudal customs gave to the woman no moral power over her husband, while the code of love, on the other hand, made of woman the guide and associate of man. It was all a play world, of course; the troubadour knight and lover would discuss by means of the tenso, which was a dialogue in song, all sorts of questions with his lady, or with another of his kind, while the slow, thick-headed husbands dozed in their chairs, dreaming of sudden alarums and the din of battle. Here, however, was afforded opportunity for a quick display of wit, and here was shown much nimbleness of mind, and, all in all, woman profited by the intercourse and became, as has been said, more than the "link between generations," which was all she had been before. It was in the great hall, about the wide hearth, after the evening meal, that the harp was sounded and the tenso was begun which was of such interest to the singer and his fair chatelaine; and among the questions of serious import which they then discussed, the following will serve by way of illustration: "Which is better, to have wisdom, or success with the ladies?" "Which is better, to win a lady by skill or by boldness?" "Which are greater, the joys or the sorrows of love?" "Which brings the greater renown, Yes or No?" "Can true love exist between married persons?" Futile and ridiculous as all this may seem to us to-day, the very fact that women were here put upon the same footing as the men, even upon a superior footing, as great deference was shown them by their knightly lovers, all this was but an indication of the fact that woman's place in society was surely advancing. Thus, outside of marriage and even opposed to it, was realized that which constitutes its true essence, the fusion of soul and mutual improvement; and since that time love and marriage have more often been found together, and the notion has been growing with the ages that the one is the complement of the other. Marriage, as has been said, was but an imperfect institution at this time, and in many cases it appears that the code of love, as it may be called, was quite superior to the civil code. For example, the feudal law allowed a man to beat his wife moderately, as occasion required, but respect was one of the fundamental laws imposed by the code of love. Again, the civil law said that a woman whose husband had been absent for ten years, and whose whereabouts was unknown, had the right to marry again, but the code of love decreed that the absence of a lover, no matter how prolonged, was not sufficient cause for giving up the attachment. In short, in this world of gallantry the ideals of love were higher than they were in the world of lawful wedlock, and the reason was not far to seek.

It cannot be said, however, that these lofty ideals of Platonic affection which so strongly characterize this brilliant and courtly society were always carried out to the letter, and it must be admitted with regret that there are many cases on record where the restraints and formalities of etiquette were insufficient to check the fateful passion when once its fires were burning. Every forbidden intrigue was fraught with danger; indeed, the injured husband is sometimes alluded to as Monsieur Danger, but here, as elsewhere, stolen sweets were sweetest, and the risk was taken. Vengeance, however, followed discovery, and swift was the retribution which overtook the troubadour when guilty of faithless conduct. The tragic story of Guillem de Cabestaing, who came from that district of Roussillon which is said to be famous for its red wine and its black sheep, will serve to show how love could not be bound by laws of honor and how quick punishment came to pay the score. Guillem, the son of a poor knight, came at the age of twelve to enter the service of my lord Raimon of Roussillon, who was also his father's lord, and there in the castle he began his education. An esquire he became, and he followed his master in peace and in warfare, perfected himself in the gentler arts of song and music, and paid no small attention to his own person, which was fair and comely. On an evil day, however, my lord Raimon transferred young Guillem to the service of his wife, the Lady Margarida, a young and sweet-faced girl who was famed for her beauty, and then began the love between them. Raimon was soon jealous and then suspicious, but false words from false lips allayed suspicion for a time. Then Guillem, in a song composed at his lady's command, revealed the love which united them, though all unconsciously, and then the end was near. One day, Guillem was summoned from the palace into the dark wood by his master, but when Raimon returned Guillem did not come with him; in his stead was a servant, who carried something concealed beneath his cloak. After the dinner, which had been attended with constant jest and laughter, Raimon informed his wife that she had just eaten the heart of the luckless troubadour! Summoning her words with a quick self-control, the Lady Margarida vowed that never after would she taste of meat, whereat Raimon grew red with rage and sought to take her life. But she fled quickly to a high tower and threw herself down to death. That is the tragedy, but this fidelity in death received its reward; for when the king heard the tale, and who did not, as it was soon spread abroad, Raimon was stripped of all his possessions and thrown into a dungeon, while lover and lady were buried together at the church door at Perpignan, and a yearly festival was ordained in their honor.

For many hundreds of years after the decay of all this brilliant life in southern France, the statement was repeated that courts of love had been organized in gay Provence, which were described as assemblies of beautiful women, sitting in judgment on guilty lovers and deciding amorous questions, but the relentless search of the modern scholar has proved beyond a doubt that no such courts ever existed. A certain code of love there was most certainly, of which the troubadours sang, and whose regulations were matters of general conduct as inspired by the spirit of courtesy and gallantry which was current at the time, and very often were questions relating to the tender passion discussed in extenso by the fairest ladies of the south, but more than that cannot be said with truth. The fiction is a pretty one, and among those who are said to have presided at these amorous tribunals are Queen Eleanor, the Countess of Narbonne, and the Countess of Champagne, and Richard Coeur de Lion has even been mentioned in this capacity. The courts were held at Pierrefeu, Digne, and Avignon according to tradition, women alone could act as judges, and appeals might be made from one court to another. This tradition but goes to show that after the decay of the Provencal civilization, its various ideas and ideals were drawn up into formal documents, that the spirit of the age might be preserved, and they in turn were taken by following generations in good faith as coexistent with the things which they describe.

It was but natural that in a state of society like the one mentioned, women should long to show themselves possessed of poetic gifts as well as men. It must not be supposed that the wife of a great baron occupied an easy position, however, and had many leisure hours, as her wifely duties took no little time and energy, and it was her place to hold in check the rude speech and manners of the warlike nobles who thronged the castle halls, as well as to put some limit to the bold words and glances of the troubadours, who were often hard to repress. Her previous education had been bestowed with care, however, the advantages of a formal and punctilious etiquette had been preached more than once, and she was even advised that the enemy of all her friends should find her civil-spoken; so, my lady managed her difficult affairs with tact and skill, and contrived in many cases to acquire such fame for her moderation and her wisdom that many poets sang her praises. It was her pleasure also to harbor these troubadours who sang her praises, and learn from them the secrets of their art; and in this pleasant intercourse it often chanced that she was inspired by the god of song, and vied with them in poesy. The names of eighteen such women have come down to us, and fragments from most of them are extant, though the Countess of Dia seems the most important of them all, as five of her short poems are now known to exist. The Lady Castelloza must be named soon after, for her wit and her accomplishments. She once reminded a thoughtless lover that if he should allow her to pine away and die for love of him, he would be committing a monstrous crime "before God and men." Clara of Anduse must not be forgotten in this list, and she it was who conquered the cold indifference of the brilliant troubadour Uc de Saint-Cyr; still, however numerous her contributions to poetry may have been, but one song remains to us, and that is contained in a manuscript of the fourteenth century. It should be said that the reason for the small amount of poetry which these women have left behind them is easily explained. Talents they may have possessed and poetical ability in abundance, but there was no great incentive to work, inasmuch as poetry offered them no career such as it opened up to the men. A troubadour sang at the command of his noble patron, but with the women poetry was not an employment, but a necessity for self-expression. It is altogether probable that their efforts were for the most part the result of a sudden inspiration, their mirth or their grief was poured forth, and then they relapsed into silence. Other than in this way the voice of the woman was rarely heard in song, unless she took part in the tenso, or song of contention, and then her words were uttered as they came, without premeditation, and were lost as soon as sung.

The city of Toulouse was a centre for much of the literary life of the time, and it was during the reign of Count Raimon VI., who was a poet of no small merit, that the art of the troubadours reached its culmination. For half a generation, it is said, his court was crowded with these poets, and he dwelt with them and they with him in brotherly affection. With the terrible Albigensian Crusade, the voice of the singer was no longer heard in the land, and the poetic fire, which had burned with so fierce a blaze at times, smouldered for long years, until in the beginning of the fourteenth century the flames burst forth anew. At that time a company of poets, and they were of bourgeois origin and not of the nobility, determined to take vigorous measures to restore the art of the troubadour to its former high position, and to this end they founded the College du Gay Scavoir, which was to support and maintain annually in Toulouse a poetic tournament called Les Jeux Floraux, wherein the prizes were to consist of flowers of gold and silver. With the definite establishment of these Floral Games the name of a woman has been intertwined in most curious fashion; and although many facts are recorded of her life and deeds, there are those who deny that she ever lived. This remarkable woman was called Clemence Isaure, and the story has grown up that some years after the founding of the Jeux Floraux she left a sum of money in trust which was to serve as a permanent endowment for this most illustrious institution of her native city. Then it was that the College du Gay Scavoir became a thing of permanence, and brilliant were the fetes which were celebrated under its auspices. First, a golden violet was bestowed upon the victor in these poetic contests, and the winner was decreed a Bachelor of Poetry; then, two other flowers were added, the eglantine and the marigold, and he who won two prizes was given the degree of Master; while he who won all three became forthwith a Doctor.

To prove that Clemence Isaure really did exist in Toulouse a tomb was shown which seemed to bear her name; and so strongly rooted is this belief, that her statue is held in reverence, and every year in May, even to this day, when the date for the Jeux Floraux arrives, the first thing on the programme for that solemn occasion is a formal eulogy in honor of this distinguished patroness. More than that, in the garden of the Luxembourg Palace in Paris, in that semicircle of twenty marble statues grouped about the parterre and representing some of the most illustrious women of France, Clemence Isaure has an honored place, and her counterfeit presentment by the sculptor Preault is considered one of the finest of the number.

In support of the claim that such a woman never existed, and in explanation of the tradition itself, the learned ones inform us that with the definite establishment of these Floral Games the good citizens of Toulouse thought it best to follow in the footsteps of their bold and plain-spoken troubadour ancestors in a somewhat timid manner, and the poems which were then written were not addressed to some fair lady in real life, but to the Holy Virgin, who was frequently addressed as Clemenza [pity], and from this word the story took its rise. After a certain lapse of time, Clemenza, personified so often in their impassioned strains, became a real person to their southern imaginations, and a tomb was conveniently found which seemed to settle the matter without question. It is even asserted that the city of Toulouse is enjoying to-day other bequests which were made to it by Clemence Isaure, and that there is no more reason for doubting her existence than for doubting the existence of any other historical character of long ago. In any event, the Floral Games are still held yearly, the seven poets have become forty in number, and they compose a dignified Academy, which has some ten thousand francs a year to bestow in prizes. And the number of the prizes has been increased, as now five different flowers of gold and five of silver are bestowed each for poetry of a certain kind, and in addition there is a gold jasmine which is awarded to the most excellent prose article, and a silver pink which is a sort of prize at large, and which may be given for a composition of any character.

This belief in the actual existence of Clemence Isaure is still held by many, and, in fact, the legend seems stronger than the facts adduced against it; but whatever the truth may be, the story symbolizes in a most beautiful and fitting way the part which woman has played in this Provencal country in the encouragement given to song and poetry. It was the women who gave the real encouragement to the troubadours and inspired them to their greatest efforts, and it seems but poetic justice, at least, that in Toulouse the only existing institution representative of those old troubadour days should claim a woman as its greatest patron.



Chapter V

Influence of Women in Early Literature

"Nine times now since my birth, the heaven of light had turned almost to the same point in its own gyration, when the glorious Lady of my mind—who was called Beatrice by many who knew not what to call her—first appeared before my eyes. She had already been in this life so long, that in its course the starry heaven had moved toward the region of the East one of the twelve parts of a degree; so that at about the beginning of her ninth year she appeared to me, and I near the end of my ninth year saw her. She appeared to me clothed in a most noble color, a modest and becoming crimson, and she was girt and adorned in such wise as befitted her very youthful age. At that instant, I can truly say that the spirit of life, which dwells in the most secret chamber of the heart, began to tremble with such violence that it appeared fearfully in the least pulses, and, trembling, said these words: Ecce deus fortior me, qui veniens dominabitur mihi [Behold a god stronger than I, who, coming, shall rule over me]. At that instant the spirit of the soul, which dwells in the high chamber to which all the spirits of the senses carry their perceptions, began to marvel greatly, and, speaking especially to the spirit of the sight, said these words: Apparuit jam beatitudo vestra [Now has appeared your bliss]. At that instant the natural spirit, which dwells in that part where our nourishment is supplied, began to weep, and, weeping, said these words: Heu miser! quia frequenter impeditus ero deinceps [Woe is me, wretched! Because often from this time forth shall I be hindered]."

Nowhere in all literature can be found a dearer statement of the spiritual evolution which was going on in the minds of men with respect to women, at the close of the Middle Ages, than that given in the foregoing passage from Dante's Vita Nuova—taken from Professor Norton's finished translation. The spirit of the amatory poetry of the gay troubadours of Provence had found its way into Italy, but it was its more spiritual side which was to make the greater impression upon the national literature at this early stage of its development. The mystic marriage with the Church which had consoled so many women in distress, and which had removed them from the sin and confusion of the hurly-burly world to a life of quiet joy and peace, had slowly been exerting a more general and secular influence which first bore fruit in the notions of Platonic friendship which had been discussed; then came deference and respect and a truer understanding of woman's true position. But something was wanting in this profession of love and respect which came from the singers of Provence; their words were ready and their speech was smooth, but all their knightly grace of manner could not conceal the fact that Venus was their goddess. They were sincere, doubtless, but all that they sang was so lyric, subjective, and persona! in its essence that they failed to strike the deepest chords of human feeling or display that high seriousness which is indicative of real dignity of character. Love had been the despot whose slightest caprice was law.—in obeying his commands one could do no wrong. Woman became the arbiter of man's destiny in so far as, the fervent lover, in his ardor, was glad to do her bidding. The troubadour Miravel has told us that when a man made a failure of his life, all were prone to say: "It is evident that he did not care for the ladies." There is a worldly tone in this remark which grates upon the ear—it does not ring clear and true, although the Provencal poets had improved the manners of their time and had introduced a highbred courtesy into their dealings with women which was in itself a great step in advance. It is related that when William the Conqueror first saw Emma, his betrothed, he seized her roughly in his arms and threw her to the ground as an indication of affection; but the troubadour was wont to kneel before his lady and pray for grace and power to win her approbation. Yet, under the courtly form of manner and speech, it is too often the sensual conception of womankind which lurks in the background, and there is little evidence to show that there was any general belief in the chastening power of the love of a good woman—a power which might be of positive value in character building.

The spiritual possibilities latent in this higher conception seem, however, to have been grasped by some of the Italian poets of the early Renaissance, and here we find a devotion to women which comes not from the heart alone, but from the soul as well. Dante's "natural spirit" was but the sensual nature, and well might it cry out when the "spirit of life" began to feel the secret commotion of the "spirit of the soul": "Woe is me, wretched! Because often from this time forth shall I be hindered in my work." And so it was. With this first somewhat broad conception of the dignity of womanhood there was a new incentive to manly endeavor; and there came into the world, in the power and might of the great Florentine poet, a majesty of character which fair Provence could never have produced. Immediately before Dante's time we see glimmerings of this new sentiment in the work of Guido Cavalcanti and of Cino da Pistoja. Cavalcanti, being exiled from Florence, went on a visit to the shrine of Saint James of Compostella; and upon the way, passing through Toulouse, he was captivated by a beautiful Spanish girl, whom he has made celebrated under the name of Mandetta:

"In un boschetto trovai pastorella, Piu che la stella bella al mio parere, Capegli avea biondetti e ricciutelli."

It is true that in his work Cavalcanti shows many of the stilted mannerisms which were common to the troubadours; but such expressions as "to her, every virtue bows," and "the mind of man cannot soar so high, nor is it sufficiently purified by divine grace to understand and appreciate all her perfections," point the way toward a greater sincerity. His chief work was a long Canzone sopra l'Amore, which was so deep and philosophic that seven weighty commentaries in both Latin and Italian have as yet failed to sound all its depths. In the story of the early love of Cino da Pistoja for Ricciarda dei Selvaggi there is a genuine and homely charm which makes us feel that here indeed true love had found a place. Ricciarda—or Selvaggia, as Cino calls her—was the daughter of a noble family of Pistoja, her father having been gonfaniere and leader of the Bianchi faction, and it appears that she also was famed for her poetic gifts. For a time she and Cino kept their love a secret from the world, but their poems to each other at this time show it to have been upon a high plane. Finally, the parents of Ricciarda were banished from Pistoja by the Neri, and in their flight they took refuge in a small fortress perched near the summit of the Apennines, where they were joined by Cino, who had determined to share their fortunes. There the spring turned into summer, and the summer into autumn, and the days sped happily—days which were later called the happiest of the poet's whole life. The two young people roamed the hills together, or took their share in the household duties, and the whole picture seems to breathe forth an air of reality and truth which far removes it from that atmosphere of comic-opera love and passion which seemed to fill the Midi. When the winter came, the hardship of this mountain life commenced; the winds grew too keen, and the young girl soon began to show the effects of the want and misery to which she was exposed. Finally, the end came; and there Cino and the parents, grieving, laid her to her rest, in a sheltered valley. The pathos of this story needs no word of explanation, and Cino's grief is best shown by an act of his later years. Long afterward, when he was loaded with fame and honors, it happened that, being sent upon an embassy, he had occasion to cross the mountains near the spot where Selvaggia had been buried. Sending his suite around by another path, he went alone to her tomb and tarried for a time in prayer and sorrow. Later, in verse, he commemorates this visit, closing with the words:

"...pur chiamando, Selvaggia! L'alpe passai, con voce di dolore."

[Then calling aloud in accents of despair, Selvaggia! I passed the mountain tops.] Cino's loved one is distinguished in the history of Italian literature as the bel numer'una—"fair number one"—in that list of the famous women of the century where the names of Beatrice and Laura are to be found.

With Dante, the spiritual nature of his love for Beatrice assumed an almost mystical and religious character, betraying the marked influence of mediaeval philosophy and theology; and here it was—for the first time in modern literature—that woman as a symbol of goodness and light found herself raised upon a pedestal and glorified in the eyes of the world. Many a pink and rosy Venus had been evoked before, many a pale-faced nun had received the veneration of the multitude for her saintly life, but here we have neither Venus nor saint; for Beatrice is the type of the good woman in the world, human in her instincts and holy in her acts. The air of mysticism with which Dante has enveloped his love for the daughter of the Portinari family does not in any way detract from our interest in his point of view, for the principal fact for the modern world is that he had such thoughts about women. Legouve has said that spiritual love was always mingled with a respect for women, and that sensual admiration was rarely without secret scorn and hatred; and it is his further opinion that spiritual love was naturally allied to sentiments of austere patriotism in illustrious men, while those who celebrated the joys of sensual passion were indifferent to the cause of country and sometimes traitor to it. Dante and Petrarch, the two chaste poets, as they are sometimes called, were the most ardent patriots in all Italy. Midst the tortures of the Inferno or the joys of the Paradiso, the image of the stricken fatherland is ever with Dante, and more than once does he cry out against her cruel oppressors. With Petrarch, as it has well been said, his love for the Latin language was but the form of his love for his people, as in his great hope for the future the glory of the past was to return. Boccaccio was the most illustrious of those in literature who represented the sensual conception of woman; and whatever his literary virtues may have been, no one has ever called attention to his patriotic fervor or to his dignity of character. Laura and Beatrice, though not of royal birth, have been made immortal by their poet lovers; Boccaccio loved the daughter of a king, but he has described her with such scant respect that what little renown she may have derived from her liaison with him is all to her discredit.

The story of Dante and Beatrice is now an old one, but ever fresh with the rare charm which it possesses even after the lapse of these many years. The New Life, Dante's earliest work, which is devoted to a description of his first meeting with Beatrice and his subsequent all-powerful love for her, has been regarded sceptically by some critics, who are inclined to see in it but an allegory, and there are others who go so far as to say that Beatrice never existed. What uncertainty can there be regarding her life, when Cino da Pistoja wrote his most celebrated poem, a canzone to Dante, consoling him for her loss? The following stanza from Rossetti's matchless version is proof enough for all who care to read:

"Why now do pangs of torment clutch thy heart, Which with thy love should make thee overjoyed, As him whose intellect has passed the skies? Behold, the spirits of thy life depart Daily to Heaven with her, they so are buoyed With thy desire, and Love so bids them rise. O God I and thou, a man whom God made wise, To nurse a charge of care, and love the same! I tell thee, in His name, From sin of sighing grief to hold thy breath, Nor let thy heart to death, Nor harbour death's resemblance in thine eyes. God hath her with Himself eternally, Yet she inhabits every hour with thee."

Beatrice certainly lived; and no matter in what veil of mysticism the poet may choose to envelop her in his later writings, and in spite of the imagery of his phrases, even in the New Life, she never fails to appear to us as a real woman. We know that Dante first saw her on Mayday, in the year 1274, when neither had reached the age of ten, and the thrill he felt at this first vision has been described in his own words on the first page of this chapter. From that time forth it seems that, boy as he was, he was continually haunted by this apparition, which had at once assumed such domination over him. Often he went seeking her, and all that he saw of her was so noble and praiseworthy that he is moved to apply to her the words of Homer: "She seems not the daughter of mortal man, but of God." And he further says: "Though her image, which stayed constantly with me, gave assurance to Love to hold lordship over me, yet it was of such noble virtue that it never suffered Love to rule me without the faithful counsel of the reason in those matters in which it was useful to hear such counsel." So began his pure and high ideal of love, which is most remarkable in that it stands in striking contrast, not only to the usual amatory declarations of the time to be found in literature, but also to the very life and temper of the day and generation in which he was so soon to play a conspicuous part. It was a day of almost unbridled passions and lack of self-restraint, and none before had thought to couple reason with the thought of love. For nine years his boyish dreams were filled with this maiden, Beatrice, and not once in all that time did he have word with her. Finally, he says: "On the last of these days, it happened that this most admirable lady appeared before me, clad in shining white, between two ladies older than herself; and as she passed along, she turned her eyes toward that spot where I stood in all timidity, and then, through her great courtesy, which now has its reward in the eternal world, she saluted me with such virtue that I knew all the depth of bliss." But never did Dante come to know her well, though she was ever in his thoughts, and though he must have watched for her presence in the street. Once she went upon a journey, and he was sore distraught until she came back into his existence; once he was taken to a company of young people, where he was so affected by sudden and unexpected sight of her that he grew pale and trembled, and showed such signs of mortal illness that his friend grew much alarmed and led him quickly away. The cause of his confusion was not apparent to all the company; but the ladies mocked him, to his great dismay, and even Beatrice was tempted to a smile, not understanding all, yet feeling some annoyance that she should be the occasion for such strange demeanor on his part. Later, when her father dies, Dante grieves for her, waits at the corner to pick up fragments of conversation from those who have just come from consoling her, and, in truth, makes such a spectacle of himself, that these ladies passing say: "Why should he feel such grief, when he has not seen her?" He constantly feels the moral force of her influence, and recounts in the following lines—from the Norton translation—her noble influence on others:

"...for when she goes her way Love casts a blight upon all caitiff hearts, So that their every thought doth freeze and perish. And who can bear to stay on her to look, Will noble thing become or else will die. And when one finds that he may worthy be To look on her, he doth his virtue prove."

Before we are through with Dante's little book, we seem to feel that Beatrice must have lived, that she was flesh and blood as we are, and that she really graced the fair city on the Arno in her time, as the poet would have us believe. She is pictured in company with other ladies, upon the street, in social gatherings at the homes of her friends, in church at her devotions, in tears and laughter, and ever is she pictured with such love and tenderness that she will remain, as Professor Norton says, "the loveliest and the most womanly woman of the Middle Ages—at once absolutely real and truly ideal."

At her death, Dante is disconsolate for a time, and then devotes himself to study with renewed vigor; and he closes his story of her with the promise that he will write of her what has never yet been written of any woman. This anticipates, perhaps, the Divine Comedy, which was yet to be written, wherein Beatrice was his guide through Paradise and where he accords her a place higher than that of the angels. It may mar the somewhat idyllic simplicity of this story to add that Dante was married some years later to Gemma Donati, the daughter of a distinguished Florentine family, but such was the case. Little is known of her, however, as Dante never speaks of her; and while there is no reason to suppose that their union was not a happy one, it is safe to conclude that it gave him no such spiritual uplift as he had felt from his youthful passion.

The extent of Dante's greatness is to be measured not only by his wide learning—for he was the greatest scholar of his time—but also by his noble seriousness, which enabled him to penetrate through that which was light and frivolous to that which was of deep import to humanity. His was not the task of amusing the idle populace with what he wrote—he had a high duty, which was to make men think on the realities of life and of their own short-comings. People whispered, as he passed along: "See his dark face and melancholy look! Hell has he seen and Purgatory, and Paradise as well! The mysteries of life are his, but he has paid the cost." And many went back to their pleasures, but some were impressed with his expression. Whence came his seriousness, whence came his penetrating glance and sober mien? Why did he move almost alone in all that heedless throng, intent upon the eternal truth? Because from early youth he had nourished in his heart a pure love which had chastened him and given him an understanding of those deeper things of the spirit, which was denied to most men of his time. Doubtless Dante would have been Dante, with or without the influence of Beatrice, but through her he received that broad humanity which makes him the symbol of the highest thought of his time.

Whatever the story of Petrarch and his Laura may lack in dignity when compared with that of Dante and Beatrice, it certainly does not lack in grace or interest. While Dante early took an interest in the political affairs which distracted Florence, and was of a stern and somewhat forbidding character, mingling study with action, Petrarch, humanist and scholar as he was, represents also the more polite accomplishments of his time, as he was a most polished courtier and somewhat vain of his fair person. Dante's whole exterior was characteristic of his mind. If accounts be true, his eyes were large and black, his nose was aquiline, his complexion dark, and in all his movements he was slow and deliberate. Petrarch, on the contrary, was more quick and animated; he had bright blue eyes, a fair skin, and a merry laugh; and he himself it is who tells us how cautiously he used to turn the corner of a street lest the wind should disarrange the elaborate curls of his beautiful hair. Though record is made of this side of his character, it must not be assumed that his mind was a frivolous one, for he may be considered—as Professor Robinson says—as "the cosmopolitan representative of the first great forward movement" in Western civilization and deserves to rank—as Carducci claims—with Erasmus and Voltaire, each in his time the intellectual leader of Europe.

With regard to Laura, Petrarch has left the following lines, which were inscribed upon the fly-leaf of a favorite copy of Virgil, wherein it was his habit to keep a record of all those things which most concerned him: "Laura, who was so distinguished by her own virtues and so widely celebrated by my poetry, first appeared before my eyes in my early manhood, in the year of our Lord 1327, upon the sixth day of April, at the first hour, in the Church of Santa Clara at Avignon; in the same city, in the same month of April, on the same sixth day, at the same first hour, in the year 1348, that light was taken from our day, while I, by chance, happened to be at Verona, ignorant, alas! of my fate. The sad news came to me at Parma, in a letter from my friend Ludovico, on the morning of the nineteenth of May of the same year. Her chaste and beautiful form was laid in the Church of the Franciscans, the evening of the day she died. I am persuaded that her soul returned, as Seneca says of Scipio Africanus, to the heaven whence it came. I have experienced a certain satisfaction in writing this bitter record of a cruel event, especially in this place, where I may see it often, for so may I be led to reflect that life can afford me no further joys; and the most serious of my temptations being removed, I may be counselled by the frequent perusal of these lines and by the thought of my departing years, that now the time has come to flee from Babylon. This, with God's help, will be easy when I frankly and manfully consider the needless troubles of the past with its empty hopes and unexpected issue."

The Babylon to which Petrarch refers was Avignon, then the home of the popes, which he declares was a place filled with everything fearful that had ever existed or been conceived by a disordered mind—a veritable hell on earth. But here he had stayed this quarter of a century, a captive to the charms of his fair Laura. According to the generally accepted story, she was of high birth, as her father—Audibert de Noves—was a noble of Avignon, who died in her infancy, leaving her a dowry of one thousand gold crowns, which would amount to almost ten thousand pounds sterling to-day, and which was a splendid marriage portion for that time. In 1325, two years before her meeting with Petrarch, she was married to Hugh de Sade, when she was but eighteen; and while her husband was a man of rank and of an age suited to her own, it does not appear that he was favored in mind or in body, or that there was any special affinity between them. In the marriage contract it was stipulated that her mother and brother were to pay the dower left by the father and also to bestow upon the bride two gowns for state ceremonies, one of them to be green, embroidered with violets, and the other of crimson, with a trimming of feathers. Petrarch frequently alludes to these gowns, and in the portraits of Laura which have been preserved she is attired in either one or the other of them. Her personal beauty has been described in greatest detail by the poet, and it is doubtful if the features of any other woman and her general characteristics of mind and body were ever subjected to such minute analysis as is exemplified in the present instance. Hands and feet, hair, eyes, ears, nose, and throat—all are depicted in most glowing and appreciative fashion; and, from the superlative degree of the adjectives, she must indeed have been fair to look upon and possessed of a great compelling charm. But from her lovely mouth—la bella bocca angelica, as he calls it—there never came a weak or yielding word in answer to his passionate entreaties. For this was no mystical love, no such spiritual affection as was felt by Dante, but the love of an active man of the world whose feelings had been deeply troubled. In spite of his pleadings, she remained unshaken; and although she felt honored by the affection of this man, and was entirely susceptible to the compliment of his poetry, and in spite of the current notions of duty and fidelity, which were far from exacting, she had a better self which triumphed. The profligate Madame du Deffand, who occupies so conspicuous a place in the annals of the French court in the days of its greatest corruption, has little sympathy with a situation of this kind, and is led to exclaim: Le fade personnage que votre Petrarque! que sa Laure etait sotte et precieuse! But Petrarch himself thought otherwise, for he has written thereupon: "A woman taught me the duty of a man! To persuade me to keep the path of virtue, her conduct was at once an example and a reproach."

Without following it in all its various incidents, it will suffice to say that this love of Petrarch for Laura, which lasted for so many years, exerted a powerful influence upon the poet and had much to do in shaping the character which was to win for him in later times the praise which Pierre de Nolhac has bestowed upon him in calling him the first modern man. Petrarch considered unworthy, it is true, the poems and sonnets which he consecrated to the charms of Laura, and he even regretted that his fame should rest upon them, when, in his own estimation, his ponderous works in Latin were of much more consequence. But, incidental to his passion for Laura, he was led to discuss within himself the two conceptions of love which were current at that time,—the mediaeval and monkish conception, based upon a sensual idea which regarded women as the root of all evil and the source of all sin, and the modern or secular idea, which is spiritual and may become holy. In an imaginary conversation with Saint Augustine which Petrarch wrote to furnish a vehicle for the discussion of these matters, the poet exclaims that it is the soul—the inborn and celestial goodness—that he loves, and that he owes all to her who has preserved him from sin and urged him on to a full development of his powers. The ultimate result of all this thought and all this reflection upon the nature of the affections developed the humanity of the man, excited broad interests within his breast, gave him a wide sympathy, and entitled him to rank as the first great humanist.

Dante, with his vague and almost mystical adoration of Beatrice, which was at times a passion almost subjective, is still in the shadow of the Middle Ages, their gloom is still upon him, and he can see but dimly into the centuries which are still to come; but his face is glorified by his vision of the spiritual possibilities of good and noble womanhood. Petrarch, in the brief interval which has passed, has come out into the light of a modern world; and there, in the midst of baffled desire, he is brought face to face with the great thought that though love be human it has power divine.



Chapter VI

Women in the Early Renaissance

Although the fourteenth century in Italy was one of almost continuous warfare between the different contending states of the peninsula, the fact remains that the whole country was enjoying a degree of prosperity which was unprecedented in the history of the Italian people. It was the beginning of the age of the despots, it is true, but in the midst of strife and contention there was at the same time a material progress which did much to enrich the country and enable its inhabitants to elevate their standard of living. The Italian cities were encouraging business transactions on a large scale; Italian merchants were among the most enterprising on the continent, making long trips to foreign countries for the purpose of buying and selling goods; and the Oriental trade, which had been diverted in great measure to Italian channels, was a constant source of profit. That all this could be so in the face of the warlike condition of society is due to the fact that much of the fighting was done by mercenary soldiers, or that the political quarrels of the time, which frequently concerned the fate of cities, too often had their rise in family feuds which, no matter how fiercely they were waged, did not interest the masses. There were always thousands upon thousands of worthy citizens who felt no direct personal interest in the outcome of the fighting, and who pursued the even tenor of their way without much regard for what was taking place, so far as allowing it to interfere with their daily occupations was concerned.

The general impression of the moral tone of this epoch in society is far from favorable. Divorce had become practically impossible for ordinary individuals; marriage was common enough, but appeared to possess no special sanctity; and as a result there were many illegitimate children, who seem, however, to have been recognized by their fathers and cared for with as great solicitude as were those who were born within the pale of the law. The ideas which were current regarding matters of decency and refinement will be found quite different from those prevalent in our own day. Coarseness in speech and manner was common, no high moral standards were maintained, even by the Church, and diplomacy and calculation took the place of sincerity and conscience. Still, while these may have been the characteristics of a considerable number of the population, the fact must not be forgotten that even in that day of moral laxity there were many good and simple people who lived their homely lives in peace and quiet and contentment, unmoved by the rush of the world. We get a glimpse of what this simple life may have been from a charming little book by Pandolfino called La Famiglia, wherein the joys of family life are depicted in a most idyllic manner. The story deals with the beginning of the married life of a young couple; and we are shown how the husband takes the wife to his house after the wedding has been celebrated, displays to her his worldly possessions, and then turns them over to her keeping. After visiting the establishment and giving it a careful inspection, they kneel before the little shrine of the Madonna, which is near at hand, and there they pray devoutly that they may be given grace to profit by all their blessings, and that they may live long years together in peace and harmony, and the prayer ends with the wish that they may have many male children. The young wife is later advised not to paint her face, and to pay no attention to other men. There is no injunction to secrecy with regard to family affairs of importance, inasmuch as Pandolfino says very frankly that he doubts the ability of a woman to keep a secret, and that, while he is perfectly willing to grant that his wife is loving and discreet, he feels a much greater sense of security when he knows she is unable to do him any harm. His quaint phrase is as follows: Non perche io non conoscessi la mia amarevole e discreta, ma sempre estimai piu securo ch'ella non mi potesse nuocere che ella non volesse.

The material conditions for happiness—and they are certainly no unimportant factor—were wonderfully advanced, and the common people of Italy at this time were enjoying many comforts of life which were unknown to the higher classes in other countries. The houses were generally large and of stone, supplies were plentiful and cheap, and, all in all, it appears to have been an age of abundance. It was customary for the housewives to lay in a supply of oil and wine for the year; they were most careful in regard to all matters of domestic economy and took a pride in their work. Indeed, Burckhardt has said that from this epoch dates the first conscious attempt to regulate the affairs of a household in a systematic way, and to this end it is interesting to note that bridal outfits were prepared with unusual care, special attention being given to the supply of household linen, which was sometimes elaborate. As a further aid to orderly housekeeping, it was often the custom for the wives to keep a careful account of daily expenditures, which they did with a skill that would doubtless cause the despair of many a modern housewife who has attempted the same thing. It must not be supposed, however, that the course of this domestic life was without annoyance, as even here at this early day servants were inclined to be exacting and hard to please. At least, that is the inference which may be drawn from a letter by an old notary of Florence, Lapo Mazzei, wherein he takes occasion to say, in inviting a friend to supper, that it will be entirely convenient to have him come, inasmuch as he has taken the precaution, in order not to trouble the house servants, to send to the bakery to be roasted a fat pullet and a loin of mutton!

Some of the customs of this time will seem to us quite primitive. It was an unheard-of thing, for example, to see carriages going about the streets, as they had not yet come into general use, and riding on horseback was the ordinary means of locomotion, even for ladies. Indeed, mention has been found in one of the early historians of an adventure which befell Louisa Strozzi, a daughter of the great Florentine house of Strozzi, as she was returning to her home, from a ball in the early morning hours, on horseback. It seems to have been the custom then, as now, to give balls which lasted far into the night, and the growing wealth of the citizens caused an increasing love of display. In some communities laws were enacted in the interests of simplicity, and it was provided that not more than three dishes should be supplied for an ordinary entertainment, while twenty was the largest number which might be served at a wedding feast. With regard to matters of dress, Scipio Ammirato tells us in his sixteenth-century History of Florence that in the earliest times the women had the simplest tastes and were "much more soft and delicate than the men," and he adds that "the greatest ornament of the most noble and wealthy woman of Florence was no other than a tight-fitting skirt of bright scarlet, without other girdle than a belt of antique style, and a mantle lined with black and white." Such simplicity, however, cannot have been long in vogue, for as early as 1323 the chronicler Villani informs us that the city authorities began to enact stringent sumptuary laws which were directed against the women. Three years after this, we learn from the same source that the Duke of Milan had made complaint because the women of Florence had induced his wife to wear, "in front of her face," a most unsightly knot of yellow and white silk, in place of her own curls, a style of head-dress already condemned by the city fathers of Florence. After this incident, the historian adds, by way of sententious remark: "Thus did the excessive appetite of the women defeat the reason and sense of the men." These laws of the year 1323 failed to prove effective, and finally, in 1330, more explicit measures were taken to check this growing evil. Villani had now best tell the story in his own words:

"The women of Florence were greatly at fault in the matter of superfluous ornaments, of crowns and wreaths of gold and silver and pearls and of other precious stones, and certain garlands of pearls, and other ornaments for the head, and of great price. Likewise they had dresses cut of several kinds of cloth and silk, with silken puffs of divers kinds, and with fringes of pearls, and little gold and silver buttons, often of four and six rows together. It was also their custom to wear various strings of pearls and of precious stones at the breast, with different designs and letters. Likewise did they give costly entertainments and wedding parties, extravagant and with superfluous and excessive table." In the midst of this deplorable state of affairs, an ordinance was passed forbidding women to wear crowns of any kind, even of painted paper; dresses of more than one piece and dresses with either painted or embroidered figures were forbidden, though woven figures were permitted. Also, bias patterns and stripes were put under the ban, excepting only those of not more than two colors. It was decided, furthermore, that more than two rings on a finger should not be tolerated. Other cities of Italy, having the same trouble to contend with, sent deputations to Florence asking for a copy of these regulations; this attempt on the part of the cities to control the habits of their citizens in these matters seems to have been quite general.

In matters of education more attention was paid to the boys than to the girls at this time, as the women were generally expected to let the men attend to the chief affairs of life, while they busied themselves with domestic duties. Still, it is on record that in the year 1338 there were from eight to ten thousand boys and girls in school in the city of Florence, learning to read. Among the people of the wealthy class and of the nobility, women were undoubtedly given greater educational advantages in many instances; and then again, in strictly academic circles, the daughters of a professor sometimes distinguished themselves for great learning and scholarship. It was at the University of Bologna in particular that women seem to have been most conspicuous in educational affairs, and here it was that a number of them were actually allowed to wear the robe of a professor and lecture to the students. Among the number famed for their learning may be mentioned Giovanna Bianchetti and Maddalena Buonsignori, who gave instruction in law. The latter was the author of a small Latin treatise of some reputation, entitled De legibus connubialis, and the character of this legal work reveals the fact that she must have been much interested in the women of her time, for she has made here in some detail a study of their legal status from certain points of view. No list of this kind would be complete without mention of Novella d'Andrea, who was perhaps the best known of all these learned women, for to her erudition was added a most marvellous beauty which alone would have been sufficient, perhaps, to hand her name down to posterity. Her father was a professor of canonical law at the University of Bologna, and there it was that she became his assistant, and on several occasions delivered lectures in his stead. At such times it was her custom, if the tradition be true, to speak from behind a high screen, as she had found out from experience that the students were so bewildered by her grace and charm, when she stood openly before them, that they were in no mood for serious study, but gazed at her the while in undisguised admiration.

However pleasurable it may prove to reflect upon this peaceful scene, the fact must not be forgotten that more women were aiding men, directly or indirectly, to break laws than to make them, for many of the most bitter feuds and controversies of the time were waged about a woman. Bianchina, the wife of Vergusio Landi, seduced by the great Galeazzo Visconti, who had been her husband's friend and ally, became the cause of a most ferocious war which was waged between the cities of Milan and Piacenza; Virginia Galucci, abducted by Alberto Carbonesi, brought about a long-standing hostility between these two families and caused much blood to be spilled; many other instances might be cited which would reveal the same state of affairs. A few of the most remarkable of these feuds have been deemed worthy of more extended notice, and the first among the number concerns the quarrel between the Buondelmonti and the Amedei, in Florence, in the thirteenth century. Buondelmonte de' Buondelmonti, a young nobleman from the upper Val d'Arno and a member of the Guelph party, was to marry a daughter of the house of Amedei, staunch Ghibelline supporters, and the wedding day was fast approaching; one day the young Guelph was met upon the street by a lady of the Donati family, also a Guelph, who reproached him for his intended union with one of the hated party, and urged him to marry her own daughter, Ciulla, who was far more desirable. The sight of the fair Donati was too much for the quick passions of Buondelmonte; he fell in love with her at once, and straightway repudiated his former plan of marriage. It may well be imagined that the Amedei were enraged at this; the powerful Uberti and all the other Ghibelline families in Florence, about twenty-four in all, joined with them, and they swore to kill the fickle young lover on sight. On Easter morning, they lay in wait for the handsome but heedless young Buondelmonte at the north end of the Ponte Vecchio; and when he appeared, boldly riding without an escort, all clothed in white and upon a milk-white steed, they fell upon him and struck him to the ground, and left him dying there, his Easter tunic dripping with his blood. Their savage yell of triumph over this assassination was not the end, but the beginning, for forty-two Guelph families immediately took up the quarrel and swore to avenge the death of their comrade, and for more than thirty years the strife continued.

The story of Imelda de' Lambertazzi is even more tragic in its results, as here the woman has to suffer as well as the man, and in its general outlines this incident recalls many of the features of Romeo and Juliet, though there is no evidence that Shakespeare used it in any way, but rather confined his attention to the traditional story of the lovers of Verona. The Lambertazzi were a noble family of Bologna, and the daughter of the house had long been wooed most ardently by Bonifacio de' Geremei, whose family was in deadly feud with her own. Yielding finally to his entreaties, she allowed him to come to see her in her own apartments; but there they were surprised by her two brothers, who considered his presence as an affront offered not only to their sister, but to their house. Imelda barely had time to escape before the two men rushed upon Bonifacio, who was powerless to defend himself. With poisoned daggers, whose secret had been learned from the Saracens by the Crusaders, he was speedily stabbed to the heart, and then dragged into a dark corner beneath a winding staircase. After seeing her brothers leave the palace, Imelda returned to discover her lover's fate, while they rushed off to raise a hue and cry and plan for further deeds of violence. Imelda found the room where she had left the struggling men empty, but, following the drops of blood upon the floor, she soon came to the lifeless body hidden away. Drawing it out to the light, she found that it was still warm, and, knowing the secret of her brothers' weapons, she resolved upon a desperate remedy, and endeavored to suck the poison from the wounds. The result of this most heroic attempt was fearful: the poison was communicated to her own veins, and she was soon stretched lifeless beside the luckless lover. There they were found by anxious servants, who, knowing of the quarrel, had not dared to stir about at first. Hallam says, after his account of this event: "So cruel an outrage wrought the Geremei to madness; they formed alliances with some of the neighboring republics; the Lambertazzi took the same measures; and after a fight in the streets of Bologna of forty days' duration, the latter were driven out of the city, with all the Ghibellines, their political associates. Twelve thousand citizens were condemned to banishment, their houses razed, and their estates confiscated."

Another story of bloody violence centres in the territory from Padova and Treviso, on the one hand, to Vicenza and Verona, on the other; and while the incidents took place in mediaeval times, dating from the latter part of the twelfth century, the consequences were so widespread and so lasting that they were by no means dead in the days of the early Renaissance. Tisolino di Camposampiero, a nobleman of Padova, confided to his friend Ezzelino, the feudal lord of Onar and Romano, that it was his intention to marry his son to the rich heiress of Abano, Cecilia Ricco by name. Ezzelino received this confidence, and promised to keep the secret; but no sooner had he parted from the Padovan nobleman than he made plans of his own, and succeeded in marrying his own son to the desirable heiress before Tisolino could interpose. What more was needed to start a feud of the first magnitude? Tisolino's disappointed son, whose heart was now filled with vengeance rather than with unrequited love, abducted his former fiancee by means of a clever ruse, and carried her off to his father's stronghold. The next day she was sent back, dishonored, to her husband, who refused to receive her under these circumstances; but at the same time he felt no compunctions about retaining her extensive dowry, which comprised many strong castles and other feudal holdings. Then the long struggle began which was to take many lives and last for many years. Succeeding generations inherited the hatred as one of their most cherished possessions, and it was almost a century before the quarrel spent itself.