Power and imagination: city-states in Renaissance Italy 9780801836435

Table of contents :
Frontmatter
PREFACE TO THE JOHNS HOPKINS EDITION (page ix)
PREFACE (page xi)
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS (page xiii)
CHAPTER I THE ASCENT OF COMMUNES (page 7)
CHAPTER II THE EARLY COMMUNE AND ITS NOBILITY (page 22)
CHAPTER III THE COMMUNE AROUND 1200 (page 34)
CHAPTER IV POPOLO AND POPULAR COMMUNE (page 45)
CHAPTER V THE END OF THE POPULAR COMMUNE (page 62)
CHAPTER VI THE COURSE OF URBAN VALUES (page 72)
CHAPTER VII DESPOTISM: SIGNORIES (page 94)
CHAPTER VIII THE COURSE OF POLITICAL FEELING (page 111)
CHAPTER IX OLIGARCHY: RENAISSANCE REPUBLICS (page 130)
CHAPTER X ECONOMIC TRENDS AND ATTITUDES (page 162)
CHAPTER XI HUMANISM: A PROGRAM FOR RULING CLASSES (page 191)
CHAPTER XII THE PRINCELY COURTS (page 218)
CHAPTER XIII ART: AN ALLIANCE WITH POWER (page 241)
CHAPTER XIV INVASION: CITY-STATES IN LIGHTNING AND TWILIGHT (page 277)
CHAPTER XV THE HIGH RENAISSANCE: A DIVIDED CONSCIOUSNESS (page 297)
CHAPTER XVI THE END OF THE RENAISSANCE (page 332)
NOTES (page 339)
BIBLIOGRAPHY (page 345)
SUPPLEMENTARY BIBLIOGRAPHY (page 353)
INDEX (page 357)

Citation preview

POWER AND IMAGINATION

By the same author THE SOCIAL WORLD OF THE FLORENTINE HUMANISTS 1963

LAWYERS AND STATECRAFT IN RENAISSANCE FLORENCE 1968

VIOLENCE AND CIVIL DISORDER IN ITALIAN CITIES, 1200-1500 1972

NOT IN GOD’S IMAGE: WOMEN IN HISTORY FROM THE GREEKS TO THE VICTORIANS with Julia O’Faolain 1973

SOCIETY AND HISTORY IN ENGLISH RENAISSANCE VERSE 1985

POWER AND IMAGINATION CITY-STATES IN RENAISSANCE ITALY

BY

LAURO MARITINES

THE JOHNS HOPKINS UNIVERSITY PRESS

© 1979, 1988 Lauro Martines All rights reserved Printed in the United States of America on acid-free paper Originally published by Alfred A. Knopf, Inc., New York, in March, 1979, and simultaneously in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto. First published in Great Britain by Allen Lane, 1980.

Johns Hopkins Paperbacks edition, 1988, published by arrangement with Alfred A. Knopf, Inc.

46897 5

The Johns Hopkins University Press 2715 North Charles Street Baltimore, Maryland 21218-4363 www.press.jhu.edu

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Martines, Lauro. Power and imagination. Bibliography: p. Includes index. 1. Italy—Politics and government—476-1268. 2. Italy—Politics and government—1268-1559. 3. Cities and towns—Italy—History. 4. Italy—Civilization—476-1268. 5. Italy—Civilization—

1268-1559. 6. City-states—Italy—History. I. Title.

DG494.M37 1988 = =945 = 87-29843

ISBN 0-8018-3643-3 (pbk.)

CONTENTS

PREFACE X1 ACKNOWLEDGMENTS Xl

PREFACE TO THE JOHNS HOPKINS EDITION 1X

Background 7 Communes Emerge 12

I. THE ASCENT OF COMMUNES 7

Il. THE EARLY COMMUNE

AND ITS NOBILITY 22 Communes and Empire 22 Consular Institutions 26

The Nobility 29 III. THE COMMUNE AROUND 1200 34

Urban Crisis and Neighborhood Context 34

Podestaral Government 4I

IV. POPOLO AND POPULAR COMMUNE 45

The Divisive Issues 45

Popular Organization 51 Discipline and Takeover 55 Tbe Changing Popolo 58

Failure 66

Achievement 62

V. THE END OF THE POPULAR COMMUNE 62

VI. THE COURSE OF URBAN VALUES 72

Urban Space and Personality 72

Florins: The Best of Kin 79 An Anonymous Moralist 86 Experience and Religious Feeling:

VII. DESPOTISM: SIGNORIES 04

Tbe Seizure of Power 94

Signorial Government 102 V

Contents

VIII. THE COURSE OF POLITICAL FEELING Ill

The Matrix: Local Feeling III The Example of Brunetto Latint 115 The Vanguard of Feeling 123

IX. OLIGARCHY: RENAISSANCE REPUBLICS 130

The Republican Environment 130

The Lesson of the Ambrosian Republic 140

Ibe Workings of Oligarchy 148

The Land 162 Population and Trade 167

X. ECONOMIC TRENDS AND ATTITUDES 162

Public Finance 175 A Unity of Attitudes 184 XI. HUMANISM: A PROGRAM

FOR RULING CLASSES 19!

The Program 19! The Origins of Humanism 201

The Problem of Objectivity 207 Class and Group Conscience 210

Ideological Themes 214

XII. THE PRINCELY COURTS 218 Lhe Courtly Establishment 221 A Paradise for Structuralists 229

Perimeters 218

XIII. ART: AN ALLIANCE WITH POWER 241

Patronage and Propaganda 241

Social Positions and Mobility. 244

Social Identity into Artistic Style 249

Manner and Style 259 Space Real and Imaginary 271 XIV. INVASION: CITY-STATES

IN LIGHTNING AND TWILIGHT 277

The Main Line of Events 277 The Main Line of Failure 288 v1

Contents

XV. THE HIGH RENAISSANCE:

A DIVIDED CONSCIOUSNESS 297

The Key Experience: Contradiction 297

Patronage in Danger 302

Religion and Leadership 304 Political Thinking: Man Against Unreason 310 Ube Language Question 317

Lhe Lure of Utopia 322

NOTES 339 BIBLIOGRAPHY 345 INDEX 357 XVI. THE END OF THE RENAISSANCE 332

SUPPLEMENTARY BIBLIOGRAPHY 353 Illustrations follow page 2.42

vil

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PREFACE TO THE JOHNS HOPKINS EDITION

ashion in historical writing is shaped by long-term social and institutional urgencies. As we pick our way through the past, we look for what is troubling or buoying us up in the present; but we do so obliquely and unconsciously, for the things that spur us may be as unshapen as population imbalances, technologies, the inner city, feminism, or the flagrant abuse of political authority. Since the first edition of Power and Imagination (1979), the historical con-

cern with populations and their attendant structures has persisted strongly, thus further underwriting an already dominant interest. Haunted by global questions, we want to know how past societies got on in their total environments—a grand commitment which has stimulated the combined study of economic, demographic, and ecological phenomena. Unsurprisingly, therefore, the last dozen years have brought a dramatic call for history as anthropological inquiry, evident above all in the current preoccupation with the history of ritual and popular culture. My appended supplementary bibliography lists the better pertinent work in this idiom. Changing numbers and recurrent patterns, volatile structures and obstinate continuities: these oppositions mark the interplay between historical demography and anthropology, between a concern with societal change over time and a concern with enduring matters of kinship, power, local space, sex, and generational relations. [he combination has made for a vital dialectic, but it also invites a warning. When we draw anthropology into historical inquiry, we seem sometimes to verge on turning it into a search for “human

nature.” It is as if we would know the human species in its essence by ferreting out the basic push and patterns that appear to characterize all societies. If this really is the aim, then here, I fear, is a circuitous way to a new conservatism. lo look for final truths in history is to flirt with canonizing current prejudice and value. Although demographers and would-be anthropological historians have thrown their nets widely, it may be argued that they have overlooked the 1X

Preface

act of enablement: the sustained scrutiny and deep analysis of texts, study of the sort best cultivated in tenacious socioliterary analysis. Yet “Where is

history if not in the text?” And where is ritual if not in its texts? Even theory —if this be a study source for us—is little more than a rich and select compilation of texts. As historians, we, perhaps more than anyone else, still see as through a glass darkly. We were not there. In this dim light, accordingly, the next new direction in historical practice ought to be the literarysocial analysis of texts, even as historians rightly continue to raise questions drawn from demography and anthropology. The effort to get at the history of culture, elite or popular, is a quest for a vanished consciousness, and this can only be reconstituted—of course it never really can be—by the pertinacious analysis of an elaborate montage of literary and run-of-the-mill texts. This highlighting of a literary mode is my warrant for ending on a special

note. The poetry of the Italian Renaissance, a vast continent, is still the undiscovered country for historians. When I come to recast and rewrite this book, as [ expect to do, I shall hope to bring in much new political, social, and anthropological material, gleaned largely from the poetry of the age. Lauro Martines London

1987

xX

PREFACE

| he story to be told in the eleventh century, of with the rise of warlike citieshere and begins their rush, under the leadership communes, to seize local political power. The years around 1300 betray a break in development: urban Italy passes from one stage to another. The first stage is, however, an organic part of the period as a whole, for the Italian Renaissance issued forth in two “grand” stages. The first, lasting to about 1300, saw the laying of a basic groundwork: the physical building of cities and the rise of a new economy, a new society, new states, and a new set of vivid, shaping values. In the second stage, extending from about 1300 to the late

sixteenth century, “high” culture—literature, art, and ideas—pushed forward and became more prominent, more important. But the achievement of the second stage was vitally rooted in the resources and values of the first. No other validation is needed, it seems to me, for giving the eleventh and twelfth centuries a place in this history. The title Power and Imagination is my way of referring to, and altering, the more conventional distinction between “society” and “culture.” In tell-

ing a story which courses across five centuries, | was driven to pursue a central theme, a thread more easily visible than “society.” I chose to center attention on the fortunes of “power” because, in tracing the movement of

political authority, I was also compelled, all the way along, to track the direction of social and economic change. And I chose “imagination” over “culture” because my supreme concern is with relations between dominant

social groups (power) and the articulated, formal, refined, or idealizing consciousness of those who speak for the powerful. In this interplay, the workings of imagination tend to be foremost. Lauro Martines Florence, Los Angeles, London 1966-1978

Xl

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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

To Gene Brucker, of the University of California, Berkeley, for a generous commentary on the manuscript. To Samuel Y. Edgerton, of the Fine Arts Department of Boston University, for his critical reading of Chapter XIII. ‘To students present and past, in the University of California at Los Angeles, who suffered the themes of this book. To the National Endowment for the Humanities, for a senior fellowship (and freedom) in 1971. And finally to the University of California, for research grants across a decade. To these all, my sincere thanks and gratitude. L.M.

Xill

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POWER AND IMAGINATION

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THE PROGRAM a refinement of values thatmajor derived largely from the urban ruling | | umanism was the city-state’s intellectual experience. It was groups, but it also needed their confirmation to have any force as a program. Humanism spoke for and to the dominant social groups. It was the concerted study of classical Roman and Greek literature; it embraced the whole field of knowledge from poetry and geography to natural science, but its syllabus was heavily weighted in favor of “the humanities” and its philosophical focus was man in society. Its emphasis on civic consciousness was so strong at first that for decades (ca. 1400-1460) humanism had no

sure definition apart from considerations of its place in a social context. Petrarch’s arch and dogmatic “What is history but the study of Rome?” is fatuous unless we see that it comes from his eagerness to relate the achievements and miseries of Rome to the circumstances of his day.

Florence, Milan, and Venice put a remarkable number of humanists near the forefront of government; and the lesser cities, republican and signorial,

regaled them with administrative, secretarial, advisory, academic, and tutorial posts. Although some humanists were humbly born, their ideals of education, humanity, and political order could be realized only in a society with privileged elites—a society rather like their own. There was no remarkable difference between the humanist image of the educated gentleman and such learned fifteenth-century oligarchs as Palla Strozzi and Francesco Barbaro. A swordsmith educated in the humanist vein was not thereby fashioned into a humanist swordsmith. With the right contacts, he was put on the track to becoming a prelate, an important municipal secretary, a governmental counselor, a courtier, a tutor to princes, or a university professor. In the worst of cases, he might be assumed as tutor to the sons of wealthy men,

nobles, or oligarchs. IQ!t

POWER AND IMAGINATION When Vergerio, Bruni, Guarino, Vegio, and other humanists made a plea for the capital value of the studia bhumanitatis—grammar, rhetoric, poetry,

history, and ethics—they had a select readership in mind, as is clear from their dedications, the interlocutors in their dialogues, their references, allu-

sions, and apostrophes. They addressed well-placed people: oligarchs, noblemen, rich bourgeois, princes, prelates, curial officials, administrators, professional men, and other literati. Like Petrarch’s remark about Roman

history, the humanist call for the ardent cultivation of rhetoric and the classics made no existential sense outside the context of cities, of municipal eminence and rewards, of importance vouchsafed to oratory, and of the vital experience that led citizens to what was relevant and useful in the classics. Humanism envisaged a course of study and a certain kind of citizen, It was an educational ideal. But it was not designed to issue in pure contemplation or prayer, nor was it meant for the urban community at large. Instead, it looked to a practical life in society and it was meant for those destined to hold leading social positions. This had a decisive effect upon the content and outlook of humanism. One of the most influential humanist treatises of the

fifteenth century, Pier Paolo Vergerio’s De ingenuis moribus (ca. 1402), citing the authority of Aristotle, warned against letting literature “absorb all the interests of life... . For the man who surrenders himself entirely to the attractions of letters or speculative thought perhaps follows a self-regarding end and is useless as a citizen or prince.”

In the presuppositions of humanist educators, Latin grammar was the fundamental discipline on which all learning and correct doctrine depended. Classical Greek received a good deal of emphasis, but it was nearly always taught through Latin. In his treatise on education (1457), Battista Guarino, the youngest son of the great humanist educator, declared: “Without a knowledge of Greek, Latin scholarship itself is, in any real sense, impossible.” But Latin remained the grammatical framework for educated men.

There is no need to dwell on the link between grammatical study and ideology. The connection speaks for itself: as only very few of antiquity’s literary works had been translated into the vernacular, the classics could be neither read nor used to underwrite fifteenth-century experience save by students with a strong command of grammar. In fact, in its highest form (philology), grammar was to become a leading weapon in the struggle against the educational establishment. The foremost humanist teachers composed their own Greek and Latin grammars, and these carried the day in all advanced pedagogic circles. A complete humanistic education took the student up to about the age of seventeen. Yet, generally speaking, even in rich merchant households, as at Genoa, Florence, and Venice, boys entered the family business at thirteen or fourteen years of age, unless they were intended for a career in the Church,

in which case their studies continued. In lower-middle-class and artisanal families, boys were usually set to learning a trade at the age of seven or

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Humanism: A Program for Ruling Classes eight. But among the rich and well placed, boys might be sent, at thirteen or

fourteen, to a distant city, sometimes overseas, to traffic or to help keep accounts. In occasional pleas to such families, humanists sought to increase civility and to soften the ungainly attachment to profit. L. B. Alberti and Francesco Barbaro, for example, urged families not to force their sons into money-making trades of a “servile” or “demeaning” nature. Lay moralists such as Brunetto Latini and Francesco Barberini had been urging something like this ever since the thirteenth century, but their call had not been issued in the name of an elaborate educational ideal.

The major poets of Rome and Greece held an important place in the humanist syllabus. Homer, Virgil, Horace, Juvenal, and Seneca headed the list, followed by Ovid, later by Terence, and more rarely by the Greek tragedians. More than a source of mere pleasure, poetry for the humanists was a commentary on experience, it was a guide, a shaper of men. Most of the leaders of the humanist movement wrote poetry or produced verse translations. Francesco Filelfo composed large quantities of Greek verse. Poliziano was one of the two or three finest lyric poets of the fifteenth century. And Battista Guarino flatly declared that “the ability to write Latin

verse is one of the essential marks of an educated person.” Here was an aristocratic—not just a scholarly—ideal, the spirit of which was soon to be taken up by Castiglione and others, to be worked into a model for courtiers and gentlemen.

The humanists loved and valued Dante, despite the fact that his great work was in the vernacular, they loved the Latinity and virtues of the early church fathers—Ambrose, Lactantius, Jerome, Augustine, but they loved Cicero and Quintilian more, at all events in fits and starts. The tradition of Christian literature was not sufficient; it was not the sole repository of experience. As if cramped by the imagery of Christianity and in response to unassuaged demands in their everyday experience, the humanists reached out enthusiastically for the polish, subtlety, and worldliness of the pagan poets. This drew them into polemic with defenders of the established edu-

cational order—Cino Rinuccini, Giovanni Dominici, Giovanni da Prato, and others. Soon, too, they clashed with philosophy faculties. All the outstanding advocates of humanism, from Petrarch and Salutati to Valla and Vegio, had to conduct a defense of the pagan poets against critics who argued that the “serpent” of antiquity, present especially in the poets, undermined Christian faith. To refer to God as Jupiter or Saturn could not be good, and it was scandalous to rehearse students in the amorous license of certain of the elegiac and lyric poets. To this the humanists angrily replied that people had been moral before Christianity, that the Bible also had risky books and passages, that the best poetry was divinely inspired, and, in any case, that much pre-Christian poetry could be read for its hidden moral, symbolic, and religious meanings. A number of humanists—Salutati, Caldiera, Landino—squeezed a range of Christian equivalents or messages IQ 3

POWER AND IMAGINATION from the classical mythologies. The historian Charles Trinkaus has rightly made much of the theological poetics of the humanists. How could their movement, however novel its accents, fail to reveal the imprint of Christian values? There was no escape from the world, even in imagined structures. Yet in their reading of Homer, Virgil, and others, in digging for as many Christian meanings as they wished, the humanists could not avoid the surfaces in pagan poetry: the distillation of firsthand secular experience re~ created by means of word, metaphor, sound, and meter. Fervent proponents all of the study of eloquence, the humanists believed that nothing moved the passions more effectively than the power of language. This being so,

we shall never know—and no doubt they did not know—how far they were willing to use allegorical interpretation as a cover for their immediate responses to pagan poetry. Virgil’s Dido could provide a dramatic lesson for Christian women, as Mafteo Vegio alleged, but she was Virgil’s Dido first.

When we turn to the other areas of humanistic interest—to rhetoric, history, and ethics—we have little trouble finding the pertinent social moorings. Humanism emphasized the utility of these studies and in so doing said what their political and social uses were. If the technical foundations of humanism were in grammar, the high aim was rhetoric, defined as eloquence, as the art of persuasion, or more simply

as the art of the most effective speaking and writing. Historical writing could also belong to rhetoric, so far as it was meant to adhere to a certain form and style, according to the manner of ancient models. Moreover, insofar as “true eloquence” presupposed wisdom, ethics and indeed philosophy could also be ranged under rhetoric. In humanistic theory, as gleaned from Cicero and Quintilian, the perfect orator combined goodness and wisdom. The perfection of rhetoric was not divorceable from philosophy. Whatever the needs of private men, the humanists perceived that public men need the art of rhetoric, the power of “bringing conviction to different minds” (Vergerio), in the administration of the state. Hence they urged its study on princes, noblemen, statesmen, and citizens. They also realized that the intimate atmosphere of oligarchical cities imposed the need for correct expression, even in private affairs, on people of high social station. ““To be able to speak and write with elegance is no slight advantage in negotiation,

whether in private or public concerns” (Vergerio). For the Florentine Matteo Palmieri, writing about 1436, the “best citizen” was the “perfect orator” as represented by Cicero and Quintilian. The humanist T. L. Frulovisi (ca. 1400-1480) observed in his De Republica that since “every form of eloquence is necessary to citizens responsible for government,” eloquence is even more important for the urban prince, lord of the city. Again, Francesco Patrizi of Siena (1413-1494), in a section on “the excellent citizen” in his De institutione reipublicae, maintained: “No quality is of more vital concern to the state than public speaking, especially that aspect which relates to civil discussion. For the ends of the state depend upon the ability

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Humanism: A Program for Ruling Classes of men of affairs to persuade others into or out of a proposed course of action.”

Bruni, Guarino, Vittorino, and A. S. Piccolomini (the future Pius II) all insisted upon the civil function of the “humanities” and made eloquence the summit of study, although the final end was purposive action in society. Piccolomini noted, in his De liberorum educatione (ca. 1456), that “Eloquence is a prime accomplishment in one given wholly to affairs,” meaning by “affairs” politics and the task of ruling. Lorenzo Valla argued, in the preface to the third book of his Elegantiarum latinae linguae (1435-1444), that no Italian lawyer could master the science of law “without the studia bumanitatis,’ and he was thinking especially of grammar and rhetoric. In the

political context of fifteenth-century cities, whether under signories or oligarchies, the humanist plea for eloquence was not just a bookish ideal: it

was a direct address to the ruling classes, urging them to broaden and modernize their outlook.

With history we broach an interest that showered the humanists with the opportunity to express fifteenth-century values under the guise of historical narrative. Their very choice of historical subject matter was telling:

Rome above all and classical Greece. Here was the true focus of secular historical study. Then came the history of one’s own city (e.g., Venice, Florence, Milan) and recent or contemporary history, as in humanist biographies or commentaries on their own times. All other histories—aside from certain historical parts of the Old and New Testaments—were omitted from the course of study. In his essay on education (ca. 1456), addressed to the

young king of Bohemia and Hungary, Piccolomini presses the study of Roman history and warns, “Beware of wasting time on subjects such as the history of Bohemia or the history of Hungary, as these would be the work of ignorant chroniclers . . . a clobber of nonsense and lies, without attraction in form, in style, or in serious reflection.”

The humanists looked to history for what it could tell them about their own experience. Theirs was a demand for relevance. They believed fervently in the utility of historical study, above all for students destined to be involved in political affairs. They believed that historians—notably Livy, Sallust, Caesar, and Plutarch—taught everything from virtue to eloquence, from wisdom to practical worldliness. They made a constant point of associating the lessons of history with practical politics and government. As a result, they seemed at times to urge the study of history more on rulers and on citizens than on students and scholars. Lionardo Bruni stated, in his De studiis et literis (ca. 1405), that “the careful study of the past enlarges our foresight in contemporary affairs and affords to citizens and to monarchs lessons of incitement or warning in the ordering of public policy. From history also we draw our store of examples of moral precepts.” If the study of rhetoric led to polished expression, and ethics to the principles of moral-

ity, then history offered specific examples of virtue and vice and proIQ 5

POWER AND IMAGINATION vided the outlines of a political science. It is not at all surprising that historical study and the study of statecraft should have been essentially one and the same for Machiavelli, for whom, as for Petrarch, Rome was the light. If history was to be relevant, a study to be spliced with the living parts

of experience, then worldly Rome, or at any rate a history built around cities, had to hold the center of inquiry. This was “civilization’’; the rest, in cultural terms, was Gothic barbarism. Nine hundred years of darkness, the “Dark” or “Middle” Ages, lay between Rome and humanism—centuries unlettered and made vile by ignorance. Then came the revival of cities, civil government, the arts and letters. This conception of history, first elaborated by the humanists, erected a bridge between antiquity and the Italian citystate in its “higher” stages. The bridge passed over the “Dark Ages” and linked the two sensibilities.

A self-image haunted the humanist vision of antiquity. The zealous search for guides in classical literature was a way back to fifteenth-century experience. Among the personalities and themes of the ancient world, the humanist preference was for the politics and moralities of urban life, for orators and public men, for eloquence and celebrity. In the life of Greek and Roman cities, they found their own cities; in orators and literati, they found themselves; in public men—rulers, statesmen, orators, professional soldiers—they found their friends, acquaintances, patrons, and again themselves. In eloquence, as we shall see, they found an ideal which could be

turned into a recipe for cultivated men of the world, a recipe for ruling classes. And in celebrity—fame, glory, honors—the humanists singled out the highest earthly prize to which they themselves aspired, a prize conferred only in signorial and oligarchical cities, in the form of embassies, university chairs, high office, tax immunities, and literary commissions. Far from being trivial, the self-images projected back into antiquity were the way to bring it forward; they served to revive classical learning. Looking

back to Greece, the humanists saw themselves in the company of Demosthenes, Lysias, Alexander the Great, Aristotle, Alcibiades, Plato, Lycurgus, Pericles, and so on. This was not the company of modest folk. And looking to the history of Rome, they picked the company of senatorial families, eminent statesmen, emperors, generals, celebrated rhetoricians and _ poets. This also flattered the patrons of humanists. Petrarch, indeed, held imaginary conversations with Cicero. Humanist intellectuals called attention again and again to the fact that Aristotle was tutor to Alexander the Great, that Plato was teacher to the kings of Sicily, that Cicero was an illustrious public figure, and that the versatile Caesar wrote his Commentaries while on campaign. The humanists had no trouble relating these and many other like matters to their own lives and to the experience of their reading public. They took for granted their afhliation with power. But this affiliation could be finer and more historically turned. Committed to oligarchical republicanism, the Florentine humanists praised the liter-

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Humanism: A Program for Ruling Classes ary life and politics of republican Rome and took the historical origins of Florence back to the Roman republican period. However, Uberto Decem-

brio, Guarino Guarini, and other humanists who depended upon the patronage of princes saved their praise for the achievements and brilliance of

the Roman principate. A famous polemic (1435) between Poggio Bracciolini and Guarino turns on an intriguing assessment, for and against, of Julius Caesar’s contribution to the Roman environment for thought and letters, but at the heart of the controversy we see Poggio’s arrogant siding with the Florentine republican polity and Guarino’s grateful commitment to signorial rank, with its resources for more centralized cultural initiatives. Neither saw the veiling effect of his own values. In 1483 the great Lombard humanist Giorgio Merula was commissioned to write a history of the dukes

of Milan. This immediately elicited a teasing letter from his friend the Venetian patrician Ermolao Barbaro, one of the most accomplished humanists of the fifteenth century. Barbaro contended that Merula would not be “free to proceed according to your own designs” and that he would find it much harder to render a complete and truthful picture “than it is in free cities.’ The Venetian did not choose to see that the humanist historians of republican cities—Bruni, Poggio, Bernardo Giustiniani—were also capable of producing historical panegyric that was as ideological, even if in a different manner, as anything issued from a princely court. The courtly intelligentsia had no monopoly on the veils of a conscience mystifié. All humanists, whatever their stripe, made a candid alliance with power. They plumped for the ruling classes, empires, and luminaries of past civil times; they also wrote in unashamed praise of their own cities, rulers, and patrons. The marriage with power could also be more devious and subtle. Two illustrations must serve.

One of the outstanding Venetian humanists of the fifteenth century, Bernardo Giustiniani (1408-1489), aristocrat and statesman, held that letters and culture “always followed a great empire.”! For only mammoth power, riches, and a history of triumphs offer the conditions for a great patronage, supply the requisite rewards and thereby stimulate the will to excellence and glory. Athens and Rome in their prime, and the Babylonian and Egyptian empires, provided Bernardo with the main examples. The opposite condi-

tion, powerlessness, led to barbarism and provincialism. In the name of culture and country, therefore, he gave himself to government service and to the furthering of Venetian expansionist policies: empire and civilization were, for him, different aspects of one and the same condition.

In his preface to the six books of his Elegantiarum (1435-1444), Lorenzo Valla begins with an invidious statement about empire: “When I consider, as I often do, the achievements of our forbears [the Romans] and those of other peoples and kings, it seems to me that our men excelled all others not only in dominion but also in the diffusion of their language.” They excelled the Persians, Medes, Assyrians, Greeks, and many others, in

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POWER AND IMAGINATION military as in other virtues, but especially in carrying their tongue to distant lands. So doing, they served not only “the greatness and glory of their own city but also benefited the whole human race.” In their linguistic imperial-

ism, they “surpassed even themselves and, almost leaving behind their worldly empire, reached the company of the gods in heaven.” | Here again, then, if more rhetorically, culture and empire are intertwined. “For the Latin language,” Valla continues, “is what educated those [conquered] peoples and indeed all people in the liberal arts; it taught them the best laws; it secured the way to all knowledge; and its effects on them were such that they could no longer be called barbarians.” The humanist goes on to distinguish the “divine” quality of language and culture from the merely “regal” quality of arms and government. And although “We have lost Rome, kingdom and authority . . . yet we still rule a large part of the

world by this brilliant domination [the rule of Latin]. Ours is Italy, ours France, ours Spain, ours Germany, ours Hungary, Yugoslavia and many other lands: the Roman empire is wherever the language of Rome dominates. Now let the Greeks go and brag about the power of their tongues.” Then suddenly turning to his own day and lamenting the barbarous use of Latin in the intellectual disciplines, Valla equates language and city, Latin and Rome, deplores its occupation by the barbarians, and, casting himself as the general Camillus, ends the preface with a clarion call to liberate the city

(Latin). His union of power and culture is direct, playful, and poetic; it colors his entire viewpoint, for throughout the individual prefaces to the six books, his language is steeped in the diction and imagery of force, counterforce, and invidious comparisons.

The humanist attitude toward history was emphatically selective, elitist, self-congratulatory, and fixed to a criterion of worldly success. The humanists were drawn irresistibly to the ranks of winners, except when victory went to “barbarism.” In addressing their pleas for the study of history to the members of oligarchies and to princes, they were saying, in effect, that the

lessons of history could teach them, the holders of power, the way to improve their political nous. Appositely, in his History of the Florentine People, Bruni presents “a political history in which he asks how decisions are made . . . whio makes them, how and to what extent they are effective. He is dealing ... with the instruments and workings of power.”

In celebrating moral philosophy over science and metaphysics, the humanists put the problems and tasks of civil life before all other philosophic concerns. This emphasis was, however, more characteristic of the first half of the fifteenth century than of the second half, when the ideal of

the contemplative life began to win more praise. If Plutarch’s public worthies and Aristotle’s Ethics, with its stress on the virtues of civil action, dominated humanistic moral values early in the century, later on “the divine

Plato,” with his larger tribute to pure contemplation, often got higher marks. In their most militant phase, when first taking their program to their

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Humanism: A Program for Ruling Classes host of upper-class readers and listeners, the humanists were driven to extol the life of action and social usefulness. By such means they satisfied their

own needs and those of their audience. Later, as humanism gained acceptance, its moral accents could change somewhat, even in favor of a more bookish life of reflection.

But whatever the accents, the moral vision of the humanists remained aristocratic. In their view, the highest worldly good was in study and in outstanding political activity. The attainability of these ends belonged to the purview of the legally constituted class of citizens, to the humanists themselves, and to princes and their advisers. In short, the highest humanist good resided with the happy few, with those who had the political rank for grand action or the virtues and economic resources for leisurely study.

When and where humanism gave prominence to traditional Christian values, its concept of the good was of course more universal: here artisan and oligarch could find validation for their ways. But as an educational and intellectual undertaking, humanism could not escape its union with privilege because of its necessary insistance upon long years of study. What is more, the humanists did not generally regard their ideals of study as preparation

for the lucrative professions, law and medicine. On the contrary, in their more arrogant moods they looked down upon these as “mere money-making pursuits.” Humanism, instead, was a preparation for life: a life of study and

public service. And when it was felt, in the later fifteenth century and afterward, that one of these could be sacrificed, public service was the more likely to give way in theory, although in practice most humanists born into the political class remained active in government and politics.

Let us see how the fifteenth century turned eloquence, the core of humanism, into a program for the ruling classes of the different cities, oligarchical or signorial.

Recent scholarship has insisted that eloquence was the guiding aim of humanism, above all with the first two generations of humanists. Beginning with Petrarch (d. 1374) and quickening with the humanist movement of the early fifteenth century, Italy saw an advancing array of men who were ready to restore rhetoric to something of its preeminence in the ancient world, where it was long the pivotal educational discipline and where oratory was a school for statesmanship. Petrarch and Coluccio Salutati (d. 1406) were key figures in the revival of classical rhetoric, and although they

feared that it could be perverted if it was not anchored in true (Christian)

wisdom, they seemed at times on the brink of according it parity with philosophy. But with Bruni and a later generation of humanists, rhetoric became a worthy match for philosophy. Indeed, for Ermolao Barbaro it was at its best only when united with philosophy, as observed in the life and works of Plato and Aristotle. Lorenzo Valla went so far as to rank eloquence

above philosophy, so comprehensive and exigent was his conception of rhetoric.

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POWER AND IMAGINATION Far from being a narrow technical discipline, the pursuit of eloquence was turned into a way of life. It was not a goal for specialists. Although taking in logic and philosophic study, rhetoric also went beyond these. It could render the technicalities of the philosophers in more ordinary speech. It drew precepts, pointers, and examples from poetry, history, and direct civil experience; and it made vital use of these in discourse that might range from intimate letters and conversation to public oratory and debate. It aimed to move, persuade, excite, or educate listeners and readers. Owing to its very nature, it was turned toward the practical and recreational needs of people in civil society. It therefore qualified as the instrument par excellence for the

reshaping of men. So viewed, as C. Vasoli and E. Garin have argued, eloquence—and here it also subsumes philology—could be turned into a fine

cutting edge. It could help to change the foundations of learning and to reorient culture. Valla’s brilliant critique (1440) of the forged Donation of Constantine was not only the first really dramatic use of the new philology;

it was also a vigorous rhetorical and polemical attack on the Church's worldly claims.

A startling conclusion follows. To promote the foregoing ideal of eloquence in the fifteenth-century setting was to seek to put a powerful device into the hands of princes and ruling elites. Legitimate political opposition was out of the question; it became conspiracy. Structurally, as the preceding chapters have shown, there was no viable outlet, in republics or in signories, for truly contrasting political voices. The major exception to this occurred at Milan in 1447, with the establishment of the Ambrosian republic, and then only because the upper classes temporarily defected, passing from loyalty to signorial government to a fleeting oligarchical republicanism. But they soon rejected the experiment. The “humanist” conspiracies of Stefano Porcari at

Rome (1453) and Olgiati-Lampugnano at Milan (1476) ended miserably, ' having no social backing of any sort. As conceived by the humanists, the ideal of eloquence could soar in importance and take a leading place in education and culture only with the help and encouragement of power; without such support, it could be no more than a bookish desire. The ambitious scope of humanist eloquence, with its disciplined core and

ideal worldly ends, depended upon an elaborate schooling of the spirit. Touching a theme that swiftly became a commonplace, Bruni said of _ humanistic studies that “they are called the studia humanitatis because they make the complete man.” And again late in the century, in Ermolao Barbaro’s “many letters and lectures to his pupils, one dominating conviction was hammered home time and again: humanitas is not a matter simply of externals, of ornament; it is a spiritual entity which produces in man the true man, the citizen, man in his totality.”* But this was not every man: it was the citizen. Fifteenth-century historical reality imposed its conditions. ‘The

ideal of eloquence and bumanitas could not touch more than the few be-

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Humanism: A Program for Ruling Classes cause the required preparation presupposed the advantages of birth (i.e., the

rights of citizenship), as well as the disposable time and income. The “scholarships” provided by the Church went largely to well-connected families and their protégés. When Battista Guarino, in his De ordine docendi et

studendi, advocated the study of Juvenal and Terence because they give “not only a copious and elastic vocabulary but also provide us with a store of sound and dignified judgments,” he was evidently not thinking of shopkeepers and little pawnbrokers, artisans or country people. Even semiliterate Venetian or Milanese noblemen were beyond the pale, except insofar as they represented what to avoid or had sons who might be schooled to eloquence and humanitas. In the world as it was, the humanist pursuit of eloquence, shying away from specialization, turned into an ideal for Renaissance gentlemen, from which Castiglione’s The Courtier was to draw so much. In addition to being prepared in classical letters and having the readiness to apply the lessons of the past to current problems, humanism’s perfected product was meant to be a man of the world—versatile, accomplished, and socially at ease. This is why humanist educators—Vittorino, the two Guarinos, Vegio—accorded great emphasis to voice, gesture, intonation, and phrase. In aiming for the

perfection of eloquence, they could not fail to concentrate also on social effects and social bearing. They stressed the habit of reading aloud, to help pupils develop self-confidence in public speaking. To round out the curricu-

lum and thinking particularly of pupils who came from the knightly nobility, they also called for a routine of physical exercise, such as running, leaping, and hunting, with an eye to future martial requirements. Matteo Palmieri, Guarino, Frulovisi, and other humanists made a plea for talented boys from poor families. They believed that rulers should encourage such boys to pursue a humanistic course of study. But nothing in this belief departed from the organizing values of the program for ruling classes. In the city-state environment, an obscurely born youth with a humanistic education was all the more likely to cling to the values of those whom he had been trained to serve. In this regard, suffice it to cite the examples of Bruni, Poggio, Guarino, Vittorino, or even Tommaso Parentuccelli, who rose to become the humanist pope Nicholas V.

THE ORIGINS OF HUMANISM If we have learned anything from modern European sociology, it is that historical and social interests, not systems of logic, determine what shall count as knowledge.

The point may be tersely illustrated. If tomorrow the West should learn and believe that the Second Coming is to take place in our time, the interest in nuclear physics would falter and the support for science would crumble.

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POWER AND IMAGINATION The system of mathematics that has enabled us to probe the universe might still retain its internal validity and its bearing upon the movement of subatomic particles, but soon it would no longer count as knowledge, as it fell away from our interests and concerns. The Italian Renaissance brought a major shift in interests. Its identifying

characteristic lay in a new consciousness, in new ways of interpreting experience. The shift was connected with advancing elements 77 experience, important elements that could no longer be adequately “processed” by the old forms of consciousness. Humanism, one of the innovative forms, won

the attention of men not by going through the established bulwarks of higher learning first, the universities, but by moving around and outside them. It advanced by way of state chancelleries, as at Milan and Florence, and princely courts, as at Mantua and Ferrara. It entered the scene by means of propaganda, official history, and panegyric, and via the consciousness of those patricians—e.g., Palla di Nofri Strozzi (Florence), Leonardo Giustiniani (Venice)—who craved a larger view of things and more consistency in experience. These men were few to begin with but their place in the fortunes of humanism was critical. They sought a deeper understanding and a more timely justification of their worldly commitment to public life and its psychology. One of the traditional and widely held views was well summed up by the

Milanese “master of grammar” Bonvesin de la Riva (ca. 1250-ca. 1314), in his Libro delle tre scritture: Wealth, exalted place and worldly honors Are naught but a dream dreamed by sinners.

This view of the marriage between sin and the world persisted. Yet the call

for a different “reading” of experience had been in the making since the thirteenth century, when literature on the office of the podesta and men such as Brunetto Latini, Rolandino Passageri, and Remigio already found virtue in citizen obligations to the worldly city. The members of the legal profession, jurists and notaries, also voiced positive attitudes toward public

service. These attitudes, however, won no large audience; they were not teased out to become the basis of a comprehensive and manifest ideology. Myth-making, in short, had failed to occur. The universities—Bologna, Padua, Pavia—might have been the starting points for the march of humanism. But this was not to be. Humanists began

to hold university chairs in Greek, rhetoric, and moral philosophy around 1400 and after, when patricians and other important political people, as at

Florence, Pavia, and Padua, worked directly for the appointments of Chrysoloras, Guarino, Vittorino, and Gasparino Barzizza. Later, from the 1420s and 1430s, there were more university posts for distinguished humanists and Greek scholars. By then, however, recognition and the early campaigns had been won. The fact was, paradoxically, that Italian universi-

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Humanism: A Program for Ruling Classes ties in the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries had been excessively geared to

practical ends: they produced jurists, physicians, teachers, and a few philosophers, usually clerics, who carried on the tasks of instruction and reflection. But abstract thought catered to the needs of the clergy, not to a laity caught up in an intense civic life. Legal study turned increasingly practical in the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries, when university lectures on Roman law made frequent reference to the current law codes of cities, as well as to contemporary cases and decisions.

There remain the arts faculties of the universities, the teachers of grammar and rhetoric who prepared students for the higher faculties or for the formularies of letters and contract law (notaria). Here, finally, the link with humanism was joined in a line of literary notaries. But even here the triggering force came from outside the universities; it came from the experience of notaries who were deeply involved in politics and public affairs.

The role of the university in the origins of humanism has been deemphasized in order to make way for a more difficult analysis.

A shock of events often brings about fundamental realignments in the history of ideas. But Italian humanism was not a response to a shock of events. The late fourteenth and early fifteenth centuries, which saw the full emergence of humanism, record nothing dramatic enough for that. A civic culture had been in the making for more than 200 years. To see humanism as

a major current in the developing civic culture is to see it as a phase of consciousness, of upper-class consciousness. Some of the main lines of humanism were drawn into place at the end of the fourteenth century, as a spinoff from the clamorous wars of expansion and consolidation between Florence and Milan, oligarchy and signory. In this perspective, the finer details of biography are irrelevant and groups count for more than individuals. Petrarch, therefore, need not stand out in this analysis, save insofar as he had much appeal for the humanists who came after.

Humanism represented one phase of a civic culture which involved a rich variety of forms. Thus, between about 1180 and 1330 a forest of new parish churches had sprung up in the different cities and the life around these was explosively intense. The churches were a treasury of art forms, and artists won local or more universal acclaim. Communes left their mark in the castellated walls and braggart towers of their main government buildings. The display of vital energy went into vernacular poetry, too, and into storytelling. Lacking a font of native vernacular traditions, urban verse was moved to borrow forms and attitudes from the Sicilian and Provengal poets, as well as from a school of ribald Latin versifiers, but the results were characteristically urban and Italian—as in the finely wrought and yet moving preciosities of the stilnovo, or in the burly and biting diction and per-

ceptions of the comic realists. Finally, at the edges of formal cultural activity, in local codes of law, in chronicles, in short administrative treatises,

in prose formularies, and in the occasional sermon, apostrophe, early

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POWER AND IMAGINATION memoir, or fleeting philosophical passage, we come upon strongly positive statements concerning the civil community, the state, or the duties of citizens. And when this civic feeling, infused with an enhanced worldliness, became forceful enough to find a self-image in the passion and swagger of classical rhetoric, then humanism came forth full-fledged.

| The critical figures in the origins of humanism were lawyers and notaries, the most literate members of lay society and among its most active in public affairs. The training of notaries varied greatly: from that for the

type of man who learned all his Latin and the different forms of public instruments as a notary’s apprentice to the training of those who attended a

university for two or three years. The latter heard lectures in Latin on rhetoric, dialectics, and the elements of Jaw. The courses in rhetoric empha-

sized correct writing, particularly in epistolary composition, but also touched the art of speechmaking. With training of this sort, the notary with literary inclinations might go on to read more Cicero, some Virgil, and even some Seneca, but more especially certain of the late Latin writers.

In the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries, the bulk of the written business of government was in the hands of chancellery notaries. Most private business transactions of any real importance came under notarial seals. And down to the early fifteenth century, the middling levels of administration and politics usually included a scatter of notaries. The short treatises on communal administration, produced in the thirteenth century, issued from this circle. Brunetto Latini was a notary. Nearly the whole school of Paduan pre-humanists hailed from the administrative-legal profession, and the two leading figures, Lovato Lovati (ca. 1237-1309) and Albertino Mussato (1261-1329), were notaries as well as politicians. The rise of pre-humanism had its chief vehicle in those notaries whose livelihood depended largely on communal administration. But they were in no position, standing as an independent group, to remake the foundations of education and learning. They were involved in government more than were other occupational groups, their education provided some preparation for dealing with ideas; and since they performed the tasks of a secular intelligentsia, they were the obvious candidates for bringing about a major reorientation of thought. But this vanguard—for a vanguard of men is what we are

talking about—had no historical force until it was able to call upon the larger force of the groups behind; and this backup support was too feeble or fragmentary during the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries. So long as the administrative literati, in the give and take of daily discourse, were not

driven and stimulated by the citizens around them, driven toward a fresh

view of the virtues of political activity and worldly pursuits, so long would that vanguard of men fail to find enough social utility in any garnerings from the literature of antiquity; so long, too, would they have trouble drawing education, politics, eloquence, and classical antiquity into a coherent intellectual program. It would be very odd indeed to suggest that the

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Humanism: A Program for Ruling Classes pre-humanist (Latini, Lovati, Mussato, Ferreto of Vicenza, or Convenevole da Prato) was unable to enjoy Virgil and Cicero in the quiet of his study,

when he could enjoy and appreciate them only thus. But he could not convert his enjoyment into a vision for living men and argue that the classics should be made the basis of all education and learning, unless he had a lively sense of that which counted for his contemporaries and unless he could Jink the bookish values in his consciousness with something urgent in theirs.

There could be no humanism without literary intellectuals, but neither could literati edge their way toward humanism, toward a new cultural program, and then “impose” it on their times, unless they did so with the help of a favorable moral climate, a responsive public, and a generation of students. The less the reciprocity between the pre-humanists and their upperclass world, the more fragmented their emerging literary-civic ideals and the more difficult the advent of the new educational program. If humanism was a phase of consciousness, of upper-class consciousness, then the suggestion

here is that by 1400 the urban governing classes had reached a stage in their historical development where a particular kind of consciousness was the most likely to provide upper-class citizens with a sense of unity and direction in their lives. And this was a consciousness oriented more frankly toward worldly ends. Sin would have to be de-emphasized and morality redefined. Otherwise citizens risked having to live lives of extraordinary ten-

sion.* The pre-humanists and humanists moved sooner and more fully toward a psychological consciousness that was more in keeping with worldly goals. But humanism could have no social reality, it could not surface historically, until the demands of worldliness were taken in, absorbed, and be-

came the psychological consciousness not only of literati but also of the social groups at the top. Upper-class society was slow in responding to the pre-humanists because of deeply ingrained resistances in everyday life. The medieval emphasis on otherworldly ideals was pertinacious, and contrary views were easily enough discounted or made to ride a place along the borders of heresy. Learning itself came under the seal of the Church: in the university cities, doctoral degrees required the confirmation of the local bishop or archdeacon. At the level of preparing boys for the pursuit of trade, primary education encour-

aged the traditional mystic values, while also teaching the basic tools of commerce—arithmetic and elementary Latin. Right through the fifteenth century, humanists had to defend their program of study against the charge of its spreading pagan ideals and undermining Christianity.

Two other points remain to be made, concerning the interplay between ideas and social structures.

The great contests over the distribution of power within the city-state were largely resolved in the course of the fourteenth century. In the wake of these resolutions, political and social life became more settled and stable. Ruling classes became more secure, their membership rather more fixed and

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POWER AND IMAGINATION more distinctly profiled; and the social or group identities of men at the top were less and less subject to challenge. Now such men were ready to look

for flattering self-images, and they were ready to deck out their preeminence with myths and with sustained argument. Possible consciousness— the demands of worldliness—was more easily converted into psychological consciousness.

Dozens of celebrated humanists—Petrarch, Salutati, Bruni, the Decembrios, Loschi, Poggio, Guarino, Vittorino, Valla, Filelfo, Poliziano, and others—were “outsiders” in the sense that they won patronage or major

public posts in cities to which they were not native. They sprang from families of a middling sort, often professional, rather than from well-established upper-class families. Some recent scholarship has elected to call them

“professional rhetoricians” because they depended upon income from chancellery offices, professorships, patronage, and even (e.g., Petrarch, Poliziano) ecclesiastical benefices. With the possible exception of Petrarch’s,

their pens were out for hire, scandalously so in Francesco Filelfo’s case. Such economic dependency did not, however, divorce the “rhetoricians” from the values of their patrons, protectors, and employers. Whatever their politics, whether turned favorably toward oligarchy or toward princes, the professionals were in profound agreement about the vital importance of the humanist program. This cut across political lines. Generally speaking, they had difficult personalities. They were avidly ambitious, socially mobile, proud, touchy, and combative. And they clung to the ideal of eloquence not only from inclination but also because it was their major endowment, the skill that won celebrity and took them up in the world. As Petrarch himself confessed in his most Christian moods, as in his De vita solitaria, eloquence was a thing of cities: an exercise best for throngs, governments, and worldly ends.

The professionals saw first and saw deepest into the grounds of praise for

the earthly city: praise for politics, for men in civil society, for secular history, riches, worldly accomplishments, and the pursuit of glory. In cleaving to eloquence as a function of moving up from middling social positions,

they did much to elaborate a view of the world which flattered and validated the life of the groups at the forefront of society and politics. This view was much more in keeping with the acquired or wished-for status of the professionals than with the social positions from which they had started.

Sooner, therefore, and more faithfully than men to the manner born, the professionals—new men, men on the make—were able to articulate the values of the elites into which they had entered, or aspired to enter, or in whose service their pens were arrayed. Arguably the social mobility of the professionals endowed their vision with a larger scope; but fundamental social trends—such as the century’s deepening stress on birth, class, and privilege—also had the effect on them, as parvenus, of intensifying their touchiness, snobbery, and esteem for the

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Humamsm: A Program for Ruling Classes intellectual virtues. Poggio, for one, was greatly pleased to marry into the old Florentine nobility. The “common opinion” was not for them. They despised “the crowd” and the lower orders and they affected disdain for all “mercenary” trades, from petty shopkeeping to medicine and even the practice of law. In contrast, humanists born to rch or distinguished old families

could afford to be more relaxed. Such at Venice were Francesco and

Ermolao Barbaro, Leonardo and Bernardo Géiustiniani, Gerolamo Dona, Bernardo Bembo, and many another; and such at Florence were Roberto de’

Rossi, Palla Strozzi, Giannozzo Manetti, Donato Acciaiuoli, Alamanno Rinuccini, and the proud oligarch Bernardo Rucellai. These men and the renowned professionals most approximated the age’s image of the humanist gentleman. The ideal of eloquence, with its emphasis on social presence and public life, could not be easily squared with the modest status of the tutor or

schoolteacher. As Vegio observed in his De educatione liberorum (ca. 1460), many rich families neglected their children’s tutors: “They will not greet their boy’s tutor, nor even acknowledge his existence. They pay him as little as they can and that, too, with the air of someone who is losing an eye or a tooth.”

THE PROBLEM OF OBJECTIVITY The danger of treating ideas in a social void is that we blind ourselves to the processes that veil the presence of social interests or self-images in ideas. But the danger of treating all ideas as mere ghosts of the social system is that the assumption which underlies such a treatment may invalidate the treatment itself. If ideas are no more than the ghosts of social structures, then this analysis is ipso facto a fantasy. A corrective is called for—namely, to list the “objective” humanist contributions that broke out of the locks of time and

place. The point will be to see how social values, fashionable ideas, and critical methods sort themselves out in humanism.

The humanist movement favored certain topics and ideas that fail to qualify for any list of objective contributions because they were directly related to current issues and were heavily laden with the transitory values of the age. When those issues or pressures died away, so also did the applicabil-

ity and importance of the ideas. The wisdom of Christianity versus the paganism of the ancients has not made for a serious subject of discussion since the seventeenth century. The morality of the classics, so much defended by the humanists, lost all meaning as a question. The demands of public life on the class of citizens gave rise to a controversy over the respec-

tive merits of the active and contemplative lives. This controversy also passed out of fashion, though it persisted at Venice to 1600 and beyond. The historical debate on the significance of Julius Caesar was a roundabout debate on the comparative merits of monarchy versus republicanism. So far as

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POWER AND IMAGINATION this preoccupation passed over into the seventeenth century, as in Venetian political theory, it stemmed directly from political realities and was subject

to the duress of contrasting interests and ideologies. A medley of other fashionable topics in the compass of humanism centered on the liberality or parsimony of princes, on the moral worth of riches, and on the question of how to define true “nobility.” These topics reflected timely social interests and touched the problem of relations between humanists and ruling groups. In grappling with the literature of antiquity, the humanists hit on strategies and developed insights that entered into the basic legacy of scholarship both in the literary and social sciences. The political scientist knows, for example, that when he studies the writings of Marx, Rousseau, Hobbes, or Machiavelli, much of the job of understanding requires that he strive to see the texts in the contexts of their time. This principle may seem obvious but it was painfully won and is easily violated; and it was introduced into the stream of Western thought by the humanists. In their zeal to master classical

Latin, they came to see and to study the departures from it, the growing accumulation of “barbarisms” across the centuries. So doing, they recognized the historicity of language, as Dante already had apropos of the vernacular, and they began to develop a view of its different stages. This could not, however, be restricted to language; the view involved a conception of civilization and went with a sense, politically and linguistically, of the different periods of Roman history.

Petrarch, Boccaccio, Salutati, and others were acutely aware of the fact that much was missing and much had been deformed in the literary monuments that came down from the ancient world. In their enthusiasm, they

sought ever more authentic texts, especially of works dating from the age of Cicero and Augustus. All the humanists were driven by this interest: to get at pristine texts by comparing manuscripts and by learning to peel away the accretions of copyists and translators. Florence, from about 1400, and Milan and Pavia, in the 1420s and 1430s, were the scenes of heated discussion about the meaning of Latin words, their historical character, and changes in grammar and syntax across time. Lorenzo Valla, the outstanding humanist of his generation, benefited from his close contact with these circles. His exposé (1440) of an infamous forgery, the supposed Donation of Constantine, rested mainly upon his brilliant philological performance. His

Notes on the New Testament (1449) apply the emerging philological method to Holy Scripture and reveal his command of Greek. But his phenomenal grasp of the Latin language and literature is evident above all in his Elegances of the Latin Language, which distinguishes different historical

periods and goes beyond words, grammatical structures, and literature to become history and historical criticism. The new methods of textual and historical criticism were again brilliantly demonstrated, late in the century, by Angelo Poliziano and Ermolao Barbaro, whose textual work combined philology with archaeology, geography, epigraphy, numismatics, and a

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superior historical sense. Poliziano’s manuscript copy of the corpus of Roman law, laced with his marginal corrections and emendations, was a repertory of criticism in the new vein. In 1495 it became the property of the Florentine government and was occasionally lent out to jurists to be studied. Legal science was also drawn into the light of the new methods.

The following list sums up humanism’s contribution to scholarship and historical method.

(1) A supreme emphasis on the importance of getting the texts right. This meant collating the earliest existing manuscripts and applying the finest

philological techniques, with an eye to producing an authentic text. Thus was Classical scholarship born. (2) Seeing the text in its historical context, in

order to establish the correct values of words and phrases. And here the scholar’s historical sense, the breadth of his preparation, came into play.° (3) Emphasis on ascertainable facts: on words, documents, dates, events, and historical persons. In textual criticism, as in historical writing, this orientation gave one of the ways of exposing or challenging historical myths. (4)

The revival of secular history, with the highlights on politics, war, and biography. Humanism not only introduced the study of history into the schools but also freed historical writing from eschatology and the argument from divine intervention. (5) Finally, humanism gave rise to a number of

new disciplines: archaeology, epigraphy, numismatics, and topography, which were aids to historical study and by-products of a new and unprecedented feeling, antiquarianism. Humanism’s vision of texts and contexts, of verified fact and antiquarian

aids, gave the keys to an understanding of the past: it established a method for getting at the words and ideas of a time, place, and people. This affected scientific disciplines as well, especially where there was recourse to ancient texts, as in geography and anatomy. Despite their privileged mode of seeing, which produced an upper-class ideology, the humanists also got beyond themselves to a form of knowledge that still counts as knowledge for us.

They founded disciplines. When Leonardo Bruni held, in Ad Petrum Paulum histrum (ca. 1402), that modern philosophy—i.e., scholasticism— could never be a true science because it was born in corrupt texts, he was striking a polemical stance but he was not wrong about the condition of the Aristotelian texts in translation.

The humanists developed techniques for getting at a relative objectivity,

but they did so by working through the blur of their own self-images, unknowingly projected by them back into antiquity. They based themselves upon a program moored in upper-class political and social values. At Venice around 1500 and later, antiquarianism was one of the chief interests that led to the formation of learned societies of noblemen, who collected much early information that flowed into numismatics, archaeology, and other historical aids. However, the Venetian interest in ancient Rome, particularly imperial Rome, moved in large measure from a self-image. For Venetian noblemen,

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POWER AND IMAGINATION with their “empire” on land and sea, with their long and relatively stable history, and with their renown for political sagacity, proudly saw themselves as the real heirs of the Romans, heirs to their glories, virtues, and might. Morally the Venetians needed imperial Rome—they needed worldly props—and they also used it for purposes of a subtle propaganda. Much Venetian painting of the Renaissance is a stage for the imagined architecture of imperial Rome.

It is not for these pages to touch on the epistemological problems that mark relations between ideology and objectivity, although we have seen, paradoxically, that the two may be closely linked. Philology, classical scholarship, and historical methodology were born in ideology: in the glare of values, wishes, and exaggerations that were the effects of power and social interest. The movement toward objectivity was filtered through upper-class values, but it was im the developing disciplines, in the new ways of doing certain kinds of intellectual work. The experience of humanism indicates that societies may be destined to

live much of their intellectual history along the highway of mystification and ideology; but they must make this journey if they are also to enter other ways and byways.

CLASS AND GROUP CONSCIENCE Conscience: “the sense of the moral goodness or culpability of one’s own conduct, intentions, or character, together with a feeling of obligation to do

right or be good.” The emphasis in this dictionary definition is on the individual sense of right and wrong. But in the fifteenth-century urban setting, the moral call to civic responsibilities had a collective origin and end: it arose from the social groups in the political forefront, from their sense of what was right, and was also necessarily addressed to them above all. We may therefore speak of class conscience. Here the recognition of right and wrong is still, of course, a function of the individual, but no such recognition can obtain unless it is infused by a sense of the collective interest.

Taken as an ideal, much of the program of humanism issues from class conscience, from the conscience of humanists speaking for and to a class: from a sense of what was good and what was bad for the class of men who enjoyed the right, by birth or acquired privilege, to hold office and to decide the destinies of the community. For humanism sought to raise the moral and intellectual quality of the citizen class by means of education. It sought,

through the didactic force of historical study, to turn political men into better statesmen and statesmen into more moral men. It urged the study of moral philosophy so as to school citizens in their obligations. Put thus, the aims of humanism may seem trite. This alignment, however, enables us to

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Humanism: A Program for Ruling Classes see that when humanists criticized princes or oligarchies, they did so not in dissent or opposition, not at all, but rather with a view to what was good for

the constituted authorities. To put this same observation in nineteenthcentury terms: with the acquisition of empire there was always talk about “the responsibilities of empire.” Far from condemning empire, to stress such responsibilities, and so to seem critical, was to provide its most effective and subtle defense.

The literary output of the humanists was rich in idealization and rooted in a sense of the upper class’s responsibilities. Cristoforo Landino and Angelo : Poliziano, for example, were full of praise for the munificence, political sagacity, versatility, and learning of the Medici, especially of Lorenzo the Magnificent. This was both propaganda and a pointer to what was good, what was deemed desirable, in a leading family. Poggio Bracciolini’s De

infelicitate principum (1440) is unusually harsh in indicting the pride, avarice, and cruelty of princes. A man of republican velleities and much attracted to oligarchical Florence, Poggio could briefly afford, in his Christian faith, to put morals above politics in a Latin dialogue. But morals and

politics could also be nicely joined. In his De avaricia (1428), as in the writings of other humanists, there is a flattering image of rich citizens and liberal princes, who live up to their grand office by their patronage of the arts and by their other virtues. Thus humanists, from the most mercenary (Filelfo) to the more high-minded (Guarino), made themselves the conscience of princes, oligarchs, and wealthy citizens by needling and egging them on to generosity. Power has a way of generating friendly critics, and that is all the conscience it needs.

There were two different humanist moods on the moral worth of riches, one in praise and one in blame. The censorious mood spoke more directly

from conscience, but it never led to a serious condemnation of worldly goods. A main current in the teachings of the Church was much more hostile to the heaping up of riches, yet no one has ever suggested that the fifteenth-century Church was the enemy of wealthy men. Rather the contrary. The celebrated preacher St. Bernardino (1380-1444) won enthusi-

astic receptions at Genoa, Milan, Venice, Florence, and other cities. Patriciate and authorities, in attendance at his sermons, wanted to be , reminded of their Christian duties; they wanted to be harangued, to be roused to think of God and their souls more often. The importuning preacher stirred their passions but somehow brought an easing of anxiety too. Next month or next year patricians and rich folk would forget; it was easier and more “natural” to live by the civic-moral ideals of the humanists.

In their approving mood, Bruni, Francesco Barbaro, Poggio, Stefano Porcari, Valla, Alberti, Bernardo Giustiniani, and a crowd of others argued that private wealth made for civilization and improved the quality of life, that it beautified cities, built temples and libraries, gave employment, defended the community, and generally surrounded virtue with the opportuni-

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POWER AND IMAGINATION ties to show itself off in the best light. The manner of such argument was often panegyrical. In their censorious mood, the humanists allowed that wealth could serve vice and be corrupting. They grieved that patronage, especially in support of literary talent, was woefully inadequate. But following an ancient and traditional line, they were ordinarily more concerned to

show that wealth was an “external good,” one of the “goods of fortune,” hence an unstable and “lesser” good. It could not in itself bring happiness. This being so, humanists urged princes and rich citizens to cultivate virtue and particularly learning. In the course of the century, in discussions among humanists, virtue and learning were increasingly joined. But when pointing to the moral dangers of wealth, the humanists were no more posing a threat

to upper-class economic values than were preaching clerics, far less so. Medieval and Renaissance audiences were accustomed to hearing about the dangers of clinging to earthly possessions and knew how to take or discount such lessons. Rich men so fully expected warnings of this sort that either

they took notice or the warnings went in one ear and out the other. Humanists were more likely to make contact with their elite audiences because they introduced new strains to an old theme. In advocating the enlightened spending of money or a renewed suspicion of it, humanists were expressing what the rich citizen was prepared to hear; they were reminding him of his obligations to his city, his family (to educate his children), and his own soul;

and they reminded him, in concord with his Christian upbringing, that it made more sense to devote himself to learning than to the blind pursuit of money. Here again the humanistic line of argument became the conscience of a class, but the critique was too friendly, put in too Ciceronian a fashion to belong to any other conscience than that of the upper class. Commentary on one other debate casts additional light on the humanists

as agents for the conscience of a class. This was the debate on “nobility,” which also reviewed the moral worth of riches. The topic had an ancient history: Plato, Aristotle, Seneca, and Juvenal were the best known of the classical writers on it. More recently, Dante had entertained the subject in his Convivio. Knowing the previous discussions, the humanists revived the subject, making it modish, presenting it by means of dialogues, and adding novel accents. By 1485 they had produced at least six works on the theme and numerous comments in letters and even verse, such as Carlo Marsuppini’s Carmen de nobilitate. But it is noteworthy that the debate on nobility was never fashionable in patrician circles at Venice. Noble by birth and

inveterate law, the men in these circles had nothing to add; they were content. The main strategy in the debate was a commonplace; it contrasted virtue

with nobility, moral worth with prestigious social rank. Moral and social meanings were paired and deliberately confused: nobility of soul was pitted against nobility as social caste. This set the main lines of argument, and in the elaboration of a definition of nobility, either virtue won out and the

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Humanism: A Program for Ruling Classes social meaning was rejected, as in Dante’s famous “nobility is wherever virtue is,” or there was a dialectical synthesis. In the synthesis, nobility was alleged to reside in virtue, but it might be granted that virtue possessed greater force or stood in a better light when it was joined with wealth and illustrious blood. The disputant who favored the social definition would be shown, in turn, that social nobility was “true” nobility only when it was united with moral worth. Questions of money, of new versus old wealth, of distinguished lineage, of public service and eminence in public life, all figured prominently in the discussions.

That the topic was tailored for an upper-class audience, including parvenus, is fairly obvious. One scholar has shrewdly observed that the pertinent dialogues pair off, in symbolic contrast, a humanist and a rich man

of birth. Thus in Poggio’s De nobilitate, the interlocutors are Niccold Niccoli and a leading member of the Medici family; in Platina’s De vera nobilitate, they are Platina himself and a lord of the Orsini family; and Landino’s De nobilitate juxtaposes Aretofilo, a learned genius of humble origins, with Filotimo, a man of birth and riches. In each case the hard moral

line is represented by the humanist, who attempts to drive the other into modifying his social stance. Besides, for the Niccoli of Poggio’s dialogue, the

social definition was “vulgar,” much too close to popular opinion. In the dramatic form of the dialogues, the humanist functions symbolically as the other man’s conscience,? spurring him on to superior moral positions and drawing him away from vulgar presuppositions.

The humanist argument turned the virtuous genius of humble birth into a nobleman. In practical terms, this would have had the effect of his winning the honors and maximum respect of the community. The humanist conception of the union between learning and virtue was cast in the language and context of privilege and oligarchy. In the debate on nobility, the humanist was defining himself with reference not to poverty but to power; he was also proposing, in his role as virtuous sage, to help moralize power and politics. All the dialogues in question—excepting only Niccoli’s haughty view of the virtuous but solitary scholar—recommend, in effect, that an

intellectual-literary elite stand at the forefront of society and politics, alongside those already there by birth. Landino’s De nobilitate (post 1481),

viewing things as from Florence, criticizes the Venetian nobility for not taking learned and virtuous men into its ranks. If we take the arguments for the idealized sage and put them into the real

historical world, then the plea made to the ruling classes by the “professional” humanists has this ring about it: take ws in too; we are deserving; we would bring wisdom and virtue to the tasks of government; we would bring conscience to politics. At the same time, the humanists frequently expressed contempt for the multitude, the vulgar herd. Hence the imagined sage stood

at a long distance from the populace, increasingly so in the course of the century, as humanists inclined more and more to equating virtue with learn-

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POWER AND IMAGINATION ing, moral worth with intellectual activity. Neoplatonism crowned this trend. In Landino’s De nobilitate the speculative faculty is what qualifies men of learning for nobility and for a place at the head of state. Divine in its origins and destined for a divine life, the soul prepares itself in this life via the process of contemplation. The “professional” humanists’ growing emphasis on the unity of learning and virtue was not a matter of mere self-promotion. For they put the prob-

lem of learning-virtue specifically in relation to power, and the problem drew much of its meaning from this relation. The problem was presented to the men of the governing class, to their sense of what was just; and the humanists, whether professionals or noblemen born, were ready to serve that class. The most apolitical of them could be drawn into the political fray. Poliziano demonstrated this in his violent diatribe against all the conspirators, and especially the Pazzi family, caught up in the attempted coup @ état against the Medici (1478).°

IDEOLOGICAL THEMES Some of the themes discussed above would fit under this heading, if by “ideology” we understand the interpretation of reality from the viewpoint of a social class. For example, humanist views of money, whether laudatory or reproachful, got all their relevance and resonance from their place in a setting ruled by money. Humanists validated wealth in a variety of ways: by highlighting its beneficial social effects, by reminding the rich man of his moral and social obligations, or even by assailing the excesses of money, its crudities and cruelties in public and private life. But because the cities were

in large measure plutocracies, when humanists discussed the effects of money, it was impossible for them to condemn it outright, and this meant

that all their caviling and qualifying phrases turned subtly in favor of wealth: that is to say, any critique that fell into compromise, that failed to speak of sanctions, became in effect an appeal to the rich man’s conscience, an invitation to correct himself. Here again the humanist veered away from the

politico-social realm into the moral one. In this operation he turned himself into the conscience of a class but he also performed an ideological function: he saw to it that the critique of wealth went the way of morals rather than politics.

Money and authority had no more able and wheedling defense than that found in humanist encomia. Even the Latin poetry of the humanists—such as the dedicatory verse of Filelfo, Landino, and Poliziano—was full of praise for the generosity and sensitivity of certain princes and powerful families.

Humanist attitudes toward public life and the vulgus (the populace) also count as ideology. We have noted that humanists often made scornful remarks about the ignorant mass of people. Historically, intellectuals have

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tended to disdain the vox populi, but it is one thing to do so in modern democracies and something else again in the society of the fifteenth-century

cities. Contexts affect attitudes, changing them in their intentions and effects. And if humanists occasionally ranked callous rich men and stupid noblemen among the vulgus, the implication was that governing classes should be smaller and the subject classes larger. In one of his Intercoenales, L. B. Alberti, the Florentine humanist, went so far as to criticize the active life of politics because “the lazy and cowardly plebeians” were too much involved in it.®

There is no need to dwell on the humanist commitment to the ideal of

public life: it gave unity to the program of humanism. If princes and oligarchies desired the praise of political life, if they longed for a view of the

high and enviable importance of their public functions, they had only to turn to the educational program of the humanists. One of the most celebrated themes of the Italian Renaissance, “the dignity of man,” was based upon a felicitous and heroic vision of the human condition. Historians have long admired this vision, without realizing that it took

its fashionable rise from the happy, hopeful, complacent, and domineering position of the urban ruling groups in an age of triumph. Rome, Florence, Milan, and Venice saw a tightening of political controls, deepening oligarchy,

larger and fancier houses, more concentrated wealth in town and country, more private art commissions, and more worldly attitudes. Reasoning from this standpoint, a number of humanists turned to consider the question of human dignity and potentiality, taking up a view that was astonishingly consonant with the brilliant position of the leading groups in society. They transformed this view into a vision of man in general. And whatever the succeeding details of thought, which derived in part from the philosophical tradition, the traces of the initial social viewpoint persisted throughout the elaboration.

In his idiosyncratic dialogue On the Misery of the Human Condition (1455), written at the age of seventy-five, Poggio Bracciolini rehearses all the reasons that make “human life nothing but a kind of pilgrimage full of toil,

error and stupidity.” One of the chief interlocutors, the banker and powerful oligarch Cosimo de’ Medici, is represented as replying that the fault is

with man, not nature, which provides him with all the gifts for living virtuously and well. But Poggio rejects the generality of this happy vision, “the elite of the wise, well-to-do and educated not being sufficiently large to count as anything but exceptions to the general rule.” And he observes that

“by his own example the poor man would testify that nothing is more miserable than poverty, one driven from his fatherland that nothing is more

unhappy than exile, the plebeian that nothing is more difficult than contempt.”?° Subsequently he denies happiness even to the rich and powerful few, for their state is temporary and confers “a greater liberty of sinning.”

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POWER AND IMAGINATION Poggio’s emphasis on wretchedness, in the literary context of the times, constitutes a denial of man’s potentiality and dignity. For a moment, however, in having Cosimo urge the virtue or happiness of the fortunate few, Poggio himself associates the period’s optimistic view with the position of the ruling elite.

In one part of his Platonic Theology on the Immortality of Souls (1482), Marsilio Ficino highlights man’s inventiveness, constructions, and mastery over all animals and nature: “But the arts of this type, although they mould the matter of the universe and command the animals, and thus imitate God, the creator of nature, are nevertheless inferior to those arts which imitating the heavenly kingdom undertake the responsibility of human government. Single animals scarcely suffice for the care of themselves or briefly of their offspring. But man alone so abounds in perfection that he rules himself first,

which no beasts do, then governs his family, administers the state, rules peoples and commands the entire world. And as though born for ruling he is

entirely impatient of servitude.”!? Suddenly, if fleetingly in this passage, Ficino converts the imagery of man’s mastery over nature and animals into the imagery of man’s mastery over man. Though all men are impatient of servitude, some rule over others, the few over the many. By virtue of his rational and immortal soul man holds a central and dynamic place in the cosmic chain of being, but evidently some men, by their sagacity or magisterial force, have more dignity than others and more felicity; they stand closer to the eternal spirits—angels. Social and moral hierarchies are converted into metaphysical ones.

The main lines in Renaissance arguments concerning the dignity of man may be followed in Charles Trinkaus’ work, In Our Image and Likeness: Humanity and Divinity in Italian Humanist Thought. The essential view had biblical, classical, patristic, and medieval roots. For fifteenth-century Christians the mainstream led back to the notion that man was made in the image and likeness of God, by reason of his soul, mind, and immortality. This being the case, humanity started with a treasury of limitless dignity but straightway depleted much of it by the Fall, only to see it refilled again by

the Incarnation of Christ. Italian humanists sought to capture the more hopeful side of this view in a new literary genre. They also gave a renewed thrust to old notions, such as man’s right to rule over the rest of creation, the usefulness and beauty of the things at man’s disposal, and “the capacities of the human mind, soul and body, for the work of ruling the sub-human universe.’’!” Here, then, we already have a domineering note.

It must suffice to itemize the main points of the analysis which would demystify the heroism of the theme in question. (1) In discussion of “the dignity of man” from Petrarch to Pico della Mirandola, there was a rising emphasis on sovereign man—on man the maker, inventor, ruler, sage, and beautiful being. The high point came in the period between Giannozzo Manetti’s De dignitate et excellentia hominis (ca. 1449) and Pico’s Oration

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Humanism: A Program for Ruling Classes on the Dignity of Man (ca. 1486), when the voluntaristic strain was exceptionally strong. The resulting portrait of man is entirely in keeping with the manner, outlook, and accomplishments of the urban ruling families. Passages in the pertinent works, especially when touching questions of wealth and government, provide the diction and tropes that tie the idealizations to the

elite groups. (2) If we study the language of the works in question— Manetti, Pico, Ficino—at the points where they discuss man’s achievements, we are struck by the incidence of the verbs of domination and voluntaristic acquisitiveness. The linguistic patterns suggest the force of ruler over subject, of possessor over thing possessed. (3) The theme became an intellectual fashion; it peaked and passed away in two or three generations; so if we seek an explanation, we are driven to concentrate on the times and their stresses, rather than on the philosophical tradition. The middle and later decades of the fifteenth century are the very period when the Italian urban elites enjoy

an unchallenged, secure, and stable hegemony for the first time in their history. But the French invasions (1494 and after) will bring an end to this and the heroic belief in man’s dignity will evaporate. (4) Finally, in discussions of the topos, man’s dignity is often made to pivot round his alleged

freedom of choice, his ability to make and reshape himself. This also is revealing and puts us on our guard. For in the fifteenth-century world, such optimism, with its sharp worldly emphases, was not the product of mon-

asteries or feudal castles, it issued from cities haunted by the effects of power, class, wealth, and caste. Pico, Ficino, and even the republican Manetti were halfway to being courtiers. Rich oligarchs at Florence and Venice, or men in the ruling circles at Milan and Ferrara, could well make an idol of their freedom, but theirs was far from being the general condition of humanity in Italy. However general the heroic view of man’s dignity, however much it purported to depend upon a notion of human potentiality, none came closer

to realization of the ideal than the men with the resources for learning, culture, patronage, and the trained capacity for enjoyment of the world’s goods. This is so obvious that it seems trivial, yet in surveying the age, historians constantly suppose, like the humanists themselves, that the heroic vision spoke for all men. Not at all. It spoke for an elite, and to ignore this is both to get the Renaissance wrong and to show that we do not see the forces and social interests that lie behind our own values.

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CHAPTER XII

PERIMETERS that they were of centers for the union privileged ) |he importance the princely courtsbetween for this power historyand is in the fact culture. Here, at the level of society’s ruling groups, consciousness was most driven to create or seek images of itself in the world around—and had the best means to do so. In their patronage of letters and the arts, the courts made a marriage, occasionally a brilliant one, of power and imagi-

nation. After 1440, for a hundred years and more, the vigor and self-indul- : gence of the courts were such as to give a distinct direction to much of the

peninsula’s elite culture. But in other ways the course of change was infelicitous. For the political leadership of the courts, as shown in Chapter XIV, was to be catastrophic—leadership lost control—and that catastrophe had its sublimated expression in culture. Giulio Romano’s braggart and fanciful Palazzo del Te (1527-1534), built for the Gonzaga lord of Mantua, is a just celebration of the brassy successes of a dynasty which survived every emergency only by constantly putting itself at the service of the most

powerful: the papacy, France, Spain, and the empire. The Gonzaga recognized no principle save that of power and political success. The , same may be said of the Este lords of Ferrara. Appropriately, in its Italian phase, Mannerism was in part a plea for refinement against the most cynical social values, but in much greater part, it was a quest for overidealized and strange forms in a world in which the order of perceived reality had slipped from the control of society’s “natural” leaders. Italy was overrun by forelgners.

The prince—pope, duke, marquis, cardinal, tyrant, or papal vicar—was a powerful magnet: he attracted and repelled. He attracted throngs of people in search of jobs, favors, patronage, honors, and prestige. Others, instead, he repelled in the sense that his powers generated fears and enemies. His au-

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The Princely Courts thority could be destructive, and so people drew away, fled, seeking cover and protection; for within his domain—and at times beyond—he could crush at will. By this definition, there was something of the prince about the Magnificent Lorenzo de’ Medici (d. 1492), and in Florence the space around him, where he doled out favor and injury, was a magnetic field, a princely court. He had enough authority and influence to dispose of public honors and offices, and he also wielded influence abroad. Letters rained in on him from neighboring lords and states, requesting judicial posts, military commissions, and the like, for their protégés. By contrast, Agostino Chigi of Siena (d. 1520) was not a prince except in a metaphorical sense. He was a rich papal banker resident in Rome, a patron to artists and literary men, but also a private citizen who disposed of no public authority, except perhaps as a tax farmer. And if Pope Leo X chose to accept any of Chigi’s recommendations regarding a governmental appointment, this was Leo’s doing; it did not follow from any title belonging to Chigi. The essential difference, then, lay in the contrast between public and private. Chigi was a rich favorite. Lorenzo, as Florentines used to say, “had a bit of the state.” He was a veiled prince in a republican oligarchy, which made his position ambiguous and difficult, especially as political Florence jealously guarded its republican trappings. The difficulty was put to the test by Lorenzo’s son, Piero, forced to flee from the city in 1494, after he demonstrated, in some grave political blunders, that he had lost the bourgeois touch—the readiness to play at modesty—of the early Medici.

Down to 1500 the major princely courts, in the following order, were the courts of Milan, papal Rome, Naples, Ferrara, Savoy, and Mantua. Papal Rome had resonant international standing as the capital of Western Christendom, but in Italian power politics, before about 1500, it had less clout than Milan and less than half of Milan’s fiscal income. The peninsula’s

northwest corner had three principalities, the first of which outranked Ferrara and Mantua in revenues but not in cultural élan: the duchy of Savoy (100,000 ducats per year) and the little marquisates of Saluzzo and Monferrato, each with its own court. These were often overrun militarily during the age of the Italian Wars (1494-1559). The fundamental changes in power as in high culture came after 1500, when papal Rome, both in ambition and resources, became the leading Italian court. Naples and Milan fell under foreign rule, first French and then Spanish; they were edged out of the picture as native Italian courts. And although the imperial governor of Milan, Ferrante Gonzaga (d. 1557), was an Italian nobleman, his entourage was a mixed, international company. After 1500, accordingly, the main line of patronage and Italian upper-class culture

passed through the papal court, Ferrara, Mantua, Urbino, and Florence under the Medici dukes. Of republics, Florence’s brief luminosity aside, only the oligarchies, Venice and Genoa, remained great centers for the joining of power and imagination by means of selective patronage.

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POWER AND IMAGINATION But the lines between courts and oligarchies were not always sharp. One

of the foremost writers of the day, the Venetian patrician Pietro Bembo (1470-1547), was more at home in courts than in Venice, and late in life, when he was made a cardinal, he entered easily into that princely mold. Caterina Cornaro, queen of Cyprus, held court at Asolo and Murano under the sway of the Venetian republic. At Genoa the rank of families like the Doria and Fregoso was exalted enough to surround their leading branches, as in Florence the Medici, with a courtly aura. Such families had ties of blood with princely dynasties. The Fregoso were related to the Montefeltro lords

of Urbino, and two of them figure prominently in Castiglione’s The Courtier, Europe’s first real catechism for “gentlemen.” They were sent to Urbino to be trained in the ways of courts. Italy was a honeycomb of princely courts. The Papal State alone had a number of lesser courts, chief among them the court of Urbino, rendered famous by Castiglione’s handbook. The duchy of Ferrara was also, legally

speaking, in papal territory, but the Este lords of the city enjoyed such dynastic eminence and so complete an autonomy that they ranked as independent princes. Rather more under Roman dominance were the courts of papal vicars: the Malatesta of Rimini, the Manfredi of Faenza, the Sforza of Pesaro, the Varano of Camerino, the Ordelaffi of Forli, and the Bentivoglio

of Bologna. “Court” may not be too definite a term for the space and personnel around the Baglioni of Perugia, also in the heart of papal territory. At Rome the powerful Colonna and Orsini clans had their courts, not only

in the space around their cardinals—and there was one in almost every generation—but also as a function of their vast feudal estates, where they administered justice, collected taxes, enacted local laws, and raised small armies, Farther south, in the kingdom of Naples, a similar position was held

by some fifteen or twenty great families in their feudal baronies. In the north, the counts of Carpi and Correggio had little states of their own, while the duchy of Milan had feudal magnates, like the Trivulzio and Borromeo, powerful enough to raise armies and rebel against the ruling Sforza.

Cardinals held the rank of prince: this was the custom of the age. In all public ceremonials, they ranked with dukes and were preceded only by the pope and by kings. They were not allowed to appear in public save in state, accompanied by a train of servitors. Most of them had one or more episcopal courts of law under their jurisdiction, and all the richest ones held feudal estates. From about 1460, down to the end of the Renaissance and beyond, a strain of cardinals was recruited from princely houses: Gonzaga, Este, Sforza, Medici, Colonna, Farnese, Pallavicini, Trivulzio. They were

great lords and lived to the style. Their entourage of “familiars” might number up to 300 servitors, ranging from armed gentlemen and companions

to secretaries, cooks, and stable boys. At the beginning of the sixteenth century, cardinals Ippolito d’Este, Ascanio Sforza, Giovanni de’ Medici, and Sigismondo Gonzaga also retained musicians, buffoons, poets, painters, and

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The Princely Courts dwarfs. To see these princes entering or leaving a city was to see a grand cavalcade of liveried gentlemen and servants. Lovers too of the most prized

of all courtly pastimes, they organized hunting parties of hundreds of horsemen and they returned from their sport to the sound of trumpets and fifes, as Roman crowds ran out to gape at them. Theirs was the world of courts, intrigue, and high politics, of state marriages and royal processions. Like any prince, they distributed both hurt and preferment. At its strictest, a court was the space and personnel around a prince, as he made laws, received ambassadors, dispatched letters, gave commands, decided cases, made appointments, took his meals, entertained, and proceeded through the streets. At its most elastic, a court was—in an age of princes—

the space and people around any dignitary who wielded some public authority in his own right, a feudal lord or even, in certain instances, a leading oligarch. As satiric poets noted, Italy teemed with signorotti— princelings. The doge of Venice was a prince, and recognized as such by Venetians. But of course he was hemmed in by the power of the senate, the Council of Ten, and his advisers.

Toward 1500 the princely court became a main reference point in the organization of upper-class consciousness. Noblemen and aspiring bourgeois

could find their different identities by means of it. A European ideal of conduct rose from it, from the social and mental world of “the courtier,” and a set of mystifications as well. Power and wealth collected increasingly around the courts and remaining oligarchies. Princes were thought to sit at the summit of the wheel of fortune. They held the world’s prizes. Literature, art, and ideas were deeply branded by the courts. As political thinkers, Machiavelli and Guicciardini were certainly so branded. The love lyric itself carried the mark, as we shall see in Chapter XV.

THE COURTLY ESTABLISHMENT The key is power: the magnetic force radiating out from the prince, organizing people and space into relations of service and overlordship. Public authority, in part or in whole, reposed in the prince—duke of Ferrara, marquis of Mantua, or duke of Urbino. He was also the city’s richest citizen, drawing income from his great landed domains and from a wealth of taxes, some of which were assigned to him personally. Drawing on a variety of indirect taxes, the Bentivoglio lords of Bologna built up a magnificent in-

come after about 1470, until Pope Julius I] ran them out of the city in 1506.

The most brutal and obvious manifestation of the prince’s power was his

residence in the city: a fortress designed to withstand riot, revolution, or war. Whether he lived in it or nearby, as did the Este dukes, there it was with its stately rooms and company of mercenaries, ready to receive the

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POWER AND IMAGINATION court at any time. At Milan the residence of the Sforza was the castle in the middle of the city, a walled-in fortress with moats, sixty-two drawbridges, and, in 1499, some 1,800 “machines of war.” Here were lodged from 800 to 1,200 mercenaries, and many more in times of war.

Arms and politics were fused together for princes like shoulders and head. Throughout the Renaissance period all the Sforza, Este, and Gonzaga lords—and most of their brothers legitimate and bastard—were trained in swordsmanship and mounted combat. And if the Moro, Ludovico Sforza, showed no inclination this way, he was rejecting a preparation received. A serious effort was also made to fire the children at court with the learning of humanism, but horses, hunts, arms, and luxurious display soon overwhelmed books. In the late fifteenth and early sixteenth centuries, the following combined the dignity of prince with the stipends of condottieri—they captained large papal, Venetian, or other armies: Ercole and Alfonso d’Este, dukes of

Ferrara; Guidobaldo da Montefeltro and Francesco Maria della Rovere, dukes of Urbino; and Francesco and Federico Gonzaga, marquises of Man-

tua. They and their like were sent away from home to train or to be perfected in arms: to the Neapolitan court, to Milan, to a free-lance condottiere, and even to Germany, France, and Spain. Leonello d’Este (d. 1450) spent several years with the mercenary Braccio da Montone; and his half-

brother, Borso (d. 1471), was trained at the court of Naples. Ferrante Gonzaga, brother to Federico, marquis of Mantua, served the Emperor Charles V in Spain in 1524-1527 and in 1530 was general of the imperial army that laid siege to Florence. Again, in January 1524, the author of the best-known handbook for courtiers, Castiglione, was already thinking of sword-and-buckler lessons for his eldest son, Camillo, who was not yet seven.’ He was looking to the boy’s future service in courts.

Theoretically, all Italian princes were feudal lords who owed military service: the dukes of Milan and marquises of Mantua and Monferrato to the emperor, the dukes of Ferrara and Urbino and the Aragonese kings of Naples to the pope. In cultivating military skills, they were looking to a tradition, to their states, and to their own safety. Therefore, training in arms was even more imperative for petty princes: the Malatesta of Rimini, the Manfredi of Faenza, the Baglioni in the towns around Perugia. For as the expenditures of these lords constantly exceeded their ordinary revenues, they were forced to seek outside military commissions (condotte): to put their men and arms out for hire to Florence, Venice, Milan, the papacy, or to one of the miniature republics, Lucca or Siena. Furthermore, there were demands on princes from their own captains, in addition to the pressure to keep soldiers loyal, hence to keep them in arms and money. The smaller a prince’s body of troops, the less his prestige. And here we touch a question that tormented all the courts—the plangent need for money. Fiscal income derived largely from a rich and complicated assortment of indirect taxes: gabelles on goods of all sorts, especially food staples, duties on

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The Princely Courts exports and imports, and taxes on mills, salt, and contracts. In the princely states, the yield from direct taxes on property could rarely be satisfactory because of the tax immunities enjoyed by many noblemen and favorites. The first Sforza duke of Milan, Francesco (d. 1466), managed to build up the duchy’s shattered finances by his military brilliance and condotte. But a grandiose diplomacy, costly wars, and a burst of luxurious display drove his sons and grandsons into debt and still more unjust taxes. A kindred fate overtook the lords of Mantua, Ferrara, Urbino, and Romagnol and other princelings; with the result that they were driven to scurry around for military commissions, to seek better stipends, and to keep up their military skills. The life of such a prince could be “consumed in the details of contracts of service, differences over pay, changes of allegiance, and war.”? And if he gambled, as princes did, the cry was for more money. The Este and Gonzaga survived by means of a ruthless Realpolitik, but other princes went down: the Malatesta of Rimini, the Sforza of Pesaro, the Riario of Imola, the Bentivoglio of Bologna, the Della Rovere of Urbino, and of course the lords of Milan and Naples. And all, as they fell, were in grave financial difficulties.

In the early sixteenth century the jewels of the Marchesana of Mantua, Isabella, were continually in hock to Venetian moneylenders. Once or twice the money was needed to buy a cardinalship. The jewels of the Este, Ferrara’s ruling house, were repeatedly pledged. In 1495, Ludovico Sforza turned to Venice for a loan of 50,000 ducats and offered jewels in pledge for three times the value. Princes also borrowed money by farming out taxes or by simply promising one of the gabelles for a given period. They put their

jewels out in pawn only as a last resort, though they were often at last resorts. Still another way to borrow was to buy items on credit, as from small-fry merchants and craftsmen, and then to take many months to pay, sometimes even years. Pleading letters from artisans and artists are testimony _ to this princely practice of the Gonzaga and Este. There remained at least

one other major economic resource: the varieties of obligatory labor (corvées) due mainly from certain classes of rustics and available to all signori. Vhis was labor called upon for the maintenance of roads and ditches,

fortifications, irrigation, or even to help put up new palazzi and country villas, like the magnificent Sforza retreat at Vigevano, where Ludovico combined hunting lodge, villa, experimental farm, zoo, and center for animal husbandry. The least studied of all surplus values due to Renaissance princes and feudal barons, obligatory labor was doubtless the major investment in the great Este villas outside Ferrara. In 1471, Borso d’Este ordered the building of an artificial mountain by means of such labor. Auditors and treasury officials kept separate accounts of the income due

personally to the prince, such as that rendered by his lands and condotte, and that which was due the state. Yet in practice, popes, cardinals, dukes, and marquises treated all unencumbered income as their own: 1.e., all monies

not already assigned to specific matters, like the payment of troops and

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POWER AND IMAGINATION official salaries, or not already committed to tax farmers, moneylenders, court favorites, or benefactions. The prince’s power over the state’s purse was in some sense unlimited, but only a peculiar blindness would hold back the pay of soldiers in order to reward a mistress or buy a famous jewel. As Ludovico Sforza said in his political testament to his sons, “the solidity and preservation of states consists in two things, soldiers and the respect for fortresses.’ Of the major courts, Milan and Urbino were the two extremes between rich and poor in ordinary revenue, until the papal court overtook and sur-

passed Milan about 1500. Naples, Savoy, Ferrara, and Mantua figured somewhere between. Romagnol and other courts had more modest establishments. Let us look at a range of expenditures. Ludovico Sforza’s political testament (1500) is a memoir on critical ques-

tions of security, administration, and succession to the dukedom. In it he prescribed a salary of 500 ducats per year for the highest officers of state,

the secret councilors. Money was tight and these dignitaries had other perquisites, including occasional gifts from the prince, but Ludovico was also preoccupied about the loyalty of leading officials and knew that he had to set a yearly stipend large enough to keep them in the style of one of Europe’s most extravagant courts. In 1484 the cardinal-prince, Ludovico’s brother, Ascanio, had a basic yearly income of 13,500 ducats from assigned ducal revenues, and this was apart from his escalating ecclesiastical income. When Francesco Gonzaga, marquis of Mantua, died in 1519, his daughter

and son-in-law, lords of Urbino, were in exile, having been driven from their court by Pope Leo X’s soldiers. They had already sold or pawned much of their plate and jewels. The marquis settled 6,000 ducats a year on them for as long as they remained in exile, in addition to which they had the use of a Gonzaga palazzo in Mantua. The sum and house were large enough to keep the princely couple in a certain state. At the time, to use a suggestive comparison, real-estate values show that the houses of noblemen in Mantua, generally speaking, ranged in value from 1,000 to 2,500 ducats, the latter attaching to very large structures. On the other hand, the house of a highly skilled artisan in a luxury trade, a weaver of velvet, might fetch eighty-five

ducats.* But all these figures are dwarfed by Federigo da Montefeltro’s reported disbursement of 200,000 ducats, in the third quarter of the fifteenth

century, for the construction of the Palace of Urbino (though we must wonder what part of this took the form of forced labor). Calculating wage labor at the rate per man of fifteen ducats per year, we find that the palace represented the wages for one year of about 13,300 men. Federigo (d. 1482), however, also had an imposing palace erected at Gubbio, one of his subject towns; and he had an accumulated investment of about 50,000 ducats in plate, furnishings, and famous tapestries, and another 30,000 in a library. These values came to something less from the 1490s, when the Italian Wars made money scarce and the cash value of objects and real property fell.

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The Princely Courts Interest rates at Ferrara went up to 30 percent and even, in some cases, go percent. Already in 1490 Caterina Sforza, countess of Imola and niece to Ludovico, begged the Milanese court for a loan of money so as to avoid

being driven to accept, she said, 4,000 to 6,000 ducats for property— probably jewels and perhaps some land—that was worth 25,000 ducats.

We cannot say what proportion of total yearly revenues, in any of the princely states, went into the courtly establishment and its largess, into sinecures, new buildings, food, dress and jewels, donations, travel and stables, not to speak of marriages, births, and deaths. No doubt much of this could be viewed as ordinary and necessary expense. But if we estimate a varying figure of 12 to 20 percent, we may not be far wrong, all the rest going for regular government expenditures—administration, salaries, upkeep, troops, and fortifications—and into the interest on public debts.

One order of extraordinary expenditure requires some words apart because, like war, it could make for fiscal havoc: special occasions—marriages,

state visits, and the purchase of titles and legitimacy. A minor event of this sort was Borso d’Este’s purchase (1452) of a ducal title for a yearly disbursement of 4,000 ducats and a jeweled collar valued at 40,000. His imperial

fiefs, Modena and Reggio, were raised to the status of a duchy by the Emperor Frederick III. But the reinvestiture of a later Este duke, Ercole II, and guarantees of the succession, cost the duchy 180,000 ducats, paid to the pope in 1539. We do not know the cost of Borso’s trip to Rome in 1471 to be created duke of Ferrara by Pope Paul II. He flashed his way to the city with a train of more than 500 mounted noblemen, many hundreds of liveried servants, and 150 pack mules, and spent twenty days on the road. A very rough idea of the cost of such a trip may be gleaned from figures relating to the duke of Milan’s brilliant and much larger cavalcade to Florence in the same year, a spectacle that first awed and then scandalized the Florentines. He led a company of thousands in a train that included 2,050 horses, 200 pack mules, 5,000 pairs of hounds, and twelve covered carriages. Everywhere were gilded horse trappings and cloth of gold, silver, and velvet. The reported cost, doubtless exaggerated, was 200,000 ducats. In 1493, Ludovico Sforza made a trip of this sort to his father-in-law’s Ferrara, and although the train went with only 1,000 horses, he and his young wife made it a point of honor to overwhelm the Ferrarese court by their splendor. Lucrezia Borgia’s bridal journey from Rome to Ferrara (January 1502), at the head of a cortége of 700 courtiers and servants, was debited to the papacy. Our information concerning the dowry is more precise. She took 100,000 ducats in cash to Alfonso of Ferrara, about as much again in lands pilfered from the diocese of Bologna, another 75,000 ducats in jewels, plate, clothes, linen, and tapestries, as well as a reduction (from 4,000 to 100 ducats) in the annual tribute due from Ferrara to the papacy. Only one dowry of the age surpassed this: the 400,000 ducats for Bianca Maria Sforza, niece to Ludovico, on the occasion of her marriage to the emperor-designate, Maximilian; and she got

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POWER AND IMAGINATION another 100,000 ducats in jewels, plate, and other fineries.° The dowry was payment for Ludovico’s accession to the duchy of Milan, making him the first Sforza to receive imperial recognition and titles. In 1491 another of Ludovico’s nieces, Anna, took a dowry of 100,000 ducats to Ferrara, in addition to thousands more in eye-catching fineries. The Este themselves, however, and the Gonzaga in this period, bestowed dowries in the range of from 30,000 to 40,000 ducats.

If arms and money were the front line of the courtly establishment, there was then all the life behind, arrayed around the prince and his family. During the third quarter of the fifteenth century, one of the smallest of

the important courts was at Urbino, under the government of Count Federigo da Montefeltro, who was raised to the ducal dignity by the great nepotist Sixtus IV, in partial reward for Federigo’s agreeing to marry off one of his daughters to a nephew of the Holy Father. The court of Urbino had a staff and household numbering about 355 people.6 Among these were forty-five counts of the duchy, seventeen lesser noblemen and gentlemen, five major secretaries, twenty-two pages, nineteen grooms of the chamber,

: nineteen waiters at table, thirty-one footmen, five cooks, fifty stable hands under five masters, and more than 125 other servitors and lackeys. Batista, | Federigo’s wife, had seven ladies-in-waiting. The contemporary biographer : Vespasiano da Bisticci noted that the court had 500 mouths to feed—probably no exaggeration, in view of Federigo’s reputation for hospitality. Political advisers to Federigo, as well as his lawyers, ambassadors, and captains, figured among the listed counts and gentlemen. Craftsmen, artists, musicians, and others were a staff apart, only partly included among the unspecified group of 125 because others of their sort were also hired temporarily or for particular jobs.

A clever condottiere, Federigo served as captain general to three popes, two kings of Naples, two dukes of Milan, and several Italian leagues. He added much to his ordinary revenues by his military stipends, collected over

a period of thirty-four years. About 1510, during Castiglione’s years at Urbino, the reduced grandeur of the court continued to put a heavy burden on its fragile economic foundations.

In the 1520s and 1530s, Mantua, a court of medium rank, had a staff of 800 people. Since an estimate of the 1540s found that a saving could be made of 3,500 ducats per year by discharging 450 of the 800," a saving which averaged just under eight ducats per head, we may suppose that most of the 800 “familiars” were servants with minimal skills—footmen, pages, and other liveried helpers.

Figures for the richest of the courts, Milan, are sketchier than those for Urbino but still suggestive.* In the 1470s the Sforza stables had 500 horses and mules for the use of court personnel. About eight were reserved for the duchess and her retinue. The duke alone had, “for the service of his person,” forty chamberlains (as against nineteen at Urbino) and more than ten sup-

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The Princely Courts plementary and still other sub-chamberlains. As some of the noblemen at court served him in this capacity, the duke was clearly surrounded by a whole hierarchy of attendants. Hundreds of servants were attached to the kitchen, dining hall, and stables, with the result that a little world of hierarchies was to be found in each of these. Lowest of all were the runners (galoppini), who raced around doing chores and commissions. The dining hall had stewards, servants in charge of the silver service and majolica, table setters, and dispensers of food. The domain of the falconers was elsewhere, among the leopard keepers, dog handlers, and lackeys for the ducal hunting

parties. The cruel and violent Galeazzo Maria (assassinated 1476) was a glutton for music and retained thirty-three singers from northern Europe, one of whom, the renowned Giovanni Cordier of Bruges, boasted a salary of

100 ducats per month—a phenomenal sum, considering that he could in theory have retired on an investment of six months’ wages, giving him a yearly return of thirty ducats at a modest 5 percent. Most workers and many an artisan lived on half of this. In the 1490s, Ludovico seems to have made economies by simplifying the organization of service, but he retained musicians and a large choral group, stepped up the ostentation in dress and jewels, and added a company of Mamelukes captained by a count. His first secretary, Bartolomeo Calco, an able and learned functionary, commanded a team of thirty men: eight secretaries, seven assistants, a keeper of seals, four

recorders, and two archivists, as well as treasurers and doorkeepers. This cluster of men was entirely separate from the secretaries and clerks attached to the duke’s high council of state, the secret council. Accordingly, when we say of a rich and powerful oligarch, Lorenzo de’ Medici, that he was a prince, we should keep in mind the great differences in power, ritual, and pomp that divided him from Ludovico. Courtly life was organized around the prince. Everything went to serve him. This meant not only the physical fact that he was flanked by teams of servitors and servants, but also that consciousness itself was turned his way. Men were there to carry out his wishes: they had no social identity apart from the one profiled in the fundamental relation at court, that between service and lordship. This condition was envied because it was joined to that of the prince, than which there was no higher identity. The basic lexicon on the one side was in the vocabulary of obedience and adulation, on the other

in that of command and expectation. From this, from the subtle play between the two, a whole courtly literature took its rise. The more we look into the princes Este, Gonzaga, Sforza, Medici, and Montefeltro-Della Rovere, the more we come on individual and dynastic egotisms that knew no bounds. But this was a luxury dearly paid for. The judgment of princes was often impaired by flattery, and since princes liked to be liked, the easiest

if most dangerous way for them to be liked, as Ludovico frankly noted in his political testament, was to open up their hands and give—like Borso d’Este on his royal way to Rome, “throwing handfuls of silver coins to

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POWER AND IMAGINATION people as he entered and left cities.”® Normally, the lion’s share of the prince’s largess went into the grasping hands of courtiers. Court favorites got their rewards, but the next tier of servitors farther down was less well satisfied, and the tiers below these, again, saw the insecurities and burdens multiply. Fiscal shortages were immediately reflected in the suspension of pay, notably at the lower levels, often for months on end, and this affected all servants who lived out or who had outside dependents. A musician might suddenly be sent back to his remote village for playing dissonantly. In 1475, in the middle of a letter about other matters, the duke

of Milan casually ordered a tailor thrown into prison because he had “spoiled the doublet of crimson silk” belonging to one of his courtiers.'° Duke Ercole of Ferrara, in 1480, commanded one of his ambassadors, in the name of service to the duke, to stop mourning his spouse’s death, adding that

he, Ercole, would find “fresher flesh” for him—a new and younger wife. Isabella d’Este, marchioness of Mantua, got a brilliant young scholar, Niccolo Panizzato, to transfer himself to Mantua in 1492 to tutor her in classical literature. He was offered a stipend of three ducats per month, plus family allowances. But no sooner had he arrived in Mantua than he was dismissed

because Isabella decided that she was, after all, too busy to resume her studies. The young man was bitterly disappointed. On an earlier occasion, while on a visit to Ferrara, she terrified a painter, Luca Lombieni, by twice

threatening in letters to have him jailed in the dungeon of Mantua if he failed to finish a particular commission before her return, or if he failed to satisfy her. “Perhaps this will make you more anxious to please us in the

future.”

In 1503, when Castiglione left the service of the marquis of Mantua for the court of Urbino, the marquis, although he had coldly granted his permission, was so angry that for some years Castiglione did not dare enter Mantuan territory to visit his mother. In December 1505, even with the credentials of an ambassador, he was forced at the Mantuan border to turn back to Urbino. Years later, having finally forgiven the courtier, the Marquis Francesco picked a spouse for him from the house of the Torelli counts of Mantua. A different aspect of the play between service and lordship, especially as

it pivoted on the egotism of the prince, appeared in relations between Titian and Francesco’s son, Federico, the first duke of Mantua. Thanking the artist in 1531 for a picture of St. Mary Magdalen, Federico declared: “I recognize that in this magnificent work you have tried to express both the love which you cherish for me and your own excellence. These two things have enabled you to produce this incomparable figure.’’! The prince’s anger knew no laws. Francesco Maria della Rovere, when seventeen years old, killed his sister’s lover, later, as duke of Urbino and again with his own hands, he killed a cardinal—and got away with it—for alleged abuse to his honor. On occasion, lawyers lost their offices in the state

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The Princely Courts for moving legal action against favorites. Goldsmiths might find themselves in prison for failing to satisfy their lords. Alfonso d’Este, duke of Ferrara, once had the eyes crushed and face trampled of a notary who had sought to have a lawsuit transferred out of Ferrarese territory to Rome. And in 1508 he had one of his soldiers assassinate a leading courtier, the lame and muchscented Ercole Strozzi, who seems to have encouraged an exchange of sympa-

thies between Alfonso’s wife (Lucrezia Borgia) and brother-in-law, the marquis of Mantua.

In all these instances the prince justified his action on grounds of honor or the service and loyalty due him. These matters were paramount, and transpressing servitors or subjects might be deemed worthy of the most brutal punishment.

Power radiated out from the prince, but the process was not altogether one-sided. By their importuning flattery and self-interest, courtiers and favorites spurred the prince on to grab what he could, to bestow favors and graces, thus at times disrupting the course of justice. Accordingly, though the prince was the animating force of the courtly establishment, courtiers

exercised some force upon him, and this made for a more complicated dialectic.

A PARADISE FOR STRUCTURALISTS The prince was the centerpoint of the courtly order of consciousness. Around that point (lordship) all life revolved (service), all the dominant forms of thought, passion, and entertainment. If we know how to find the radii, how to read the variety of relations that ran between circle and center, we shall see that courts were a paradise for structuralists.

The fifteenth century was an age of strident self-assurance for the governing elites. Lorenzo de’ Medici and his circle bullied and swaggered. ‘The first duke of Ferrara, Borso d’Este, tried to build a mountain. The oligarchical core of the Venetian patriciate looked upon all Italy as fair game. Popes reconstituted their authority in Italy. And Ludovico Sforza believed that he

could manipulate the leading powers of Europe. Never before had Italian ruling groups owned so much faith in their ability to control the perceived reality of the surrounding world. In this psychological environment, the interest in self-images, at once direct and devious, became one of the leading

pleasures of the day, nowhere more than at the courts. The richesse of painted and sculpted portraits was only the most obvious sign of this interest. Painters at court spent much time executing portraits of princes, of the favorites of princes, and of their favorite pets, mainly dogs and falcons,

more rarely horses; here already there was an entry into the realm of roundabout self-images. The striking of commemorative medallions—those sharply incised profile portraits of princes and lesser worthies—affords an-

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POWER AND IMAGINATION other example of the interest; they were usually cut to celebrate a triumph. The taste spread to rich bourgeois circles with humanistic or aristocratic pretensions, but it began or first prevailed in the strutting courts of the Este, Visconti, Malatesta, Gonzaga, and others. In imitation of Roman models, the profiles were occasionally crowned with laurel wreaths or given Roman shoulder and neck dress, thus associating the portrait (a self-identification) with the power that was Rome and so converting even Rome into a roundabout self-image. But the biggest self-image of the age, in company with

Michelangelo’s unfinished tomb of Pope Julius IJ, was promised by Ludovico Sforza in the gigantic equestrian statue commissioned from Leonardo da Vinci for the main Milanese square. It was a statue of the dynasty’s founder, the condottiere Francesco Sforza, Ludovico’s father. In November 1493, to celebrate Bianca Maria’s marriage to Maximilian and to impress the German visitors, Leonardo’s clay colossus was raised onto a triumphal arch and set in the piazza before the castle. The lyric praise of poets followed. But as the duchy was heaving toward deep financial difficul-

ties, the statue, meant to be cast in bronze, was never finished; and after Ludovico was overthrown, his enemies destroyed the clay model. Here, art in Our terms was hated propaganda in theirs.

Next, there was the rich scatter of refracted self-images to be found in the objects around: in court tapestries, playing cards, decorated earthenware, embroidered silks, wedding chests, engraved arms and armor plate, and even a variety of sugar confections for special banquets. Courtiers saw images in these of hunting parties, lush gardens and exotic animals (akin to those collected by certain princes), cavaliers and ladies, battle scenes and mythological cycles, such as the Fall of Troy or the Labors of Hercules. Standing before the latter, princes could imagine mythological ancestors and the Este lords with the name Ercole (Hercules) could playfully seek themselves. And if they were short in imagination, adulators were not. As the satirist Panfilo Sasso (fl. 1500) observed, even parvenus were ready to claim descent from Priam, Pyrrhus, and Alexander the Great.’3 Faience and sets of cards depicted sainted knights, patron saints, fortified cities, fair Justice holding her scales, and armorial bearings, as well as personal devices and mottos, a fashion then much in favor with princes. The margins of Lascaris’ Greek grammar composed for the child Gian Galeazzo Sforza, later duke, were decorated with colored Sforza devices and heraldic bearings. Borso d’Este once dressed his pages in livery adorned with a motto about “fidelity.” “Alpha” and “Omega,” in Greek lettering, said the motto on the suit of white satin and gold brocade worn on a famous occasion (Rome, 1512) by the twelve-year-old heir to the Gonzaga titles. His mother, Isabella d’Este, was flashing her allegiance to humanism. Ludovico Sforza’s wife, Beatrice d’Fste, was enamored of a dress cut from a brocade (price about eighty ducats per square meter) embroidered with the two towers of the port of Genoa. The image was very much to the point, for in his political testament,

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Ihe Princely Courts her husband, lord of that city too, declared, “Genoa is of the highest moment, not only for [the sake of our] reputation but also for the preservation of this, our primary state [Milan].” At major banquets the courts often produced sugar confections done up in the shapes of cities, castles, birds, and animals: the very devices that symbolized the lordship and hunting interest of princes. These devices were also much depicted in painting at court after about 1420 Or 1430.

Humanist programs for frescos caught fragments of self-imagery. In 1522 the humanist Mario Equicola suggested that each of the five roundels in

the bedroom of his warrior lord, Federico Gonzaga, be adorned with pictures of Victory, Virtue, Bellona (goddess of war), and Hope, while the fifth and big roundel in the middle would depict Fame. Evidently the program was intended both to summarize Federico’s qualities (a flattery) and to be a spur." The courtly quest for, and delight in, self-images was endless and could take the most circuitous routes. When Pope Alexander VI died in 1503, the

marquis of Mantua, who was with the French army just outside Rome, wrote to his wife saying that “his funeral was such a miserable thing that the

wife of the lame dwarf of Mantua had a more honorable burial than this pope.” That is to say, a lowly dwarf—whose wife alone was lower—was the

exact opposite of a prince, the very image of power and grandeur. ‘Thus, with an oddly perfect taste, the Gonzaga had introduced dwarfs into their court and in the sixteenth century ordered built, in their own residence at Mantua, a famous suite of miniature rooms. This game, however, of opposite but twin images also fused the two, for the stunted creatures were dressed, like their masters, in lush cloth of silver and gold. When in November 1515 the Venetian ambassadors to Milan passed through Mantua, they found the

Marquis Francesco, disabled by syphilis, lying on a couch in a richly adorned room. His favorite dwarf, attired in gold brocade, attended him. Three pages stood nearby, as well as three of his pet greyhounds. Some of his falcons, reined by leashes, were also in the room; and the walls were hung with pictures of his favorite dogs and horses. In short, the room was a cache of turned, circuitous, and refracted self-images. Some years before, his

head had been shaved clean to help heal a battle wound, whereupon his courtiers shaved their heads to keep him in countenance and to reflect his. The damaged image of the prince had its consolation in reflections. At Milan, instead, such mimicry was for prize falcons, which were shown off, as if in imitation of the prince, wearing “a little hood trimmed with some pearls and with one much larger on the peak,” said the ambassador from Ferrara.’® The cardinal Ascanio Sforza had a different sort of petted bird: a parrot (price 100 ducats) able to recite the Credo entire.

Imaginative literature at court was on the same track, where power turned all things into figments of itself or into symbolic scraps of the things

that were central to its interests and delights. We need only mention the

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POWER AND IMAGINATION torrents of accolades in verse produced by poets, among them the best of the age: Poliziano, Boiardo, Bembo, Ariosto, and Tasso. From doggerel of the

sort occasionally written by Bellincione at the Sforza court, up to the sustained encomia in Orlando Furioso, there is a stream of honeyed words and adoring sycophancy for princes, their wives, mistresses, favorites, and for all the best-placed around these, not excluding pets. Ludovico Sforza commissioned the poet and courtier Gaspare Visconti to write verses on the death

of a favorite falcon. The best-known of such poetizing was occasioned in 1512 by the death of Isabella d’Este’s little bitch, Aura. The marchioness grieved, and commemorative elegies, sonnets, epitaphs, and epigrams, in Latin as well as Italian, poured into Mantua from different parts of Italy, and

many survive in manuscript. The equivalent in stone was the sumptuous tomb designed in 1526, by none other than Giulio Romano, for one of Federico Gonzaga’s dead pets, also a bitch.

The method of tracking self-images, as a way of delineating the opera-

tions of consciousness, shows that we should be on the lookout for the impact of power even in the most unlikely or prima facie innocent activity. Not, however, that Duke Ercole d’Este’s “seeking of his fortune” was innocent. Once a year he went around Ferrara with cap in hand, humble airs, and a crowd of courtiers, begging food at the doors of citizens. Whatever he gathered—pies, capons, gamebirds, and cheeses by the hundreds—was given over to feed the city’s poor. The exercise made a candid use of power, but it was interestingly combined with a self-image turned upside down, as in the

pairing of prince and dwarf. The prince put on mock airs and became a beggar. Power became theater and ritual. But all the provisions collected by

the begging Ercole went to prop up his magnanimity: a weak if sincere gesture that could not make up for an oppressive fiscal machine, as Ercole (d. 1505), in the course of his reign, stepped up his political ambitions and splashed his resources around on grand building schemes.

The courts cast a perfect profile in their orgiastic splendor. All public occasions allowed for a display of luxury. Marriages, births, funerals, state visits, the reception of ambassadors, carnivals, special fétes, and religious pro-

cessions: these were occasions for the courts to dress up and show off their splendor. Princes, courtiers, and their ladies went forth in cloth of gold and blazing with jewels. At their best, in an Este expression of the period, they thought they looked “like angels from heaven,” never suspecting that they imagined angels in their own image. High points in the march of finery were the Aragon-Este marriage of 1473, the Este-Sforza marriages of 1491-1492, Ludovico Sforza’s visit to Ferrara in 1493, Bianca Maria Sforza’s marriage to Maximilian late in 1493, Lucrezia Borgia’s arrival at Ferrara in 1502, festivi-

ties for the king of France at Milan in 1507, and the coronation of the emperor at Bologna in 1530. A half-dozen other marriages and state visits

were not far behind in their pomp. And marriages often went with the raising of triumphal arches, where again we see the self-glorifying taste of the courts.

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Ihe Princely Courts All the grand occasions drew great crowds of people, among them many from the country. They came to gawk at ornamented horse carriages, chariots, and long files of caparisoned horses; at collars of chained gold on the necks of the rows of gentlemen; gold-fringed sleeves worth thirty ducats each; accessories of hammered, filigreed, laminated, and scaled gold; dresses —Lucrezia Borgia’s—striped with fish scales of woven gold; other dresses valued up to 5,000 ducats; headpieces and coronets with assemblies of jewels; and cascades of diamonds, pearls, rubies, and emeralds.

There was a meaning to all this finery that went beyond the mere show of wealth. None knew this better than the actors themselves. More than once there was competition between courts, each yearning to show off the heaviest collars of chained gold. Chroniclers were impressed. Letters were dispatched with precise estimates of the collars in ducats. In a letter to her husband on Lucrezia Borgia’s first arrival in Ferrara, the Marchesana of Mantua (an Este) said, underscoring her own father’s luster, that seventyfive of Duke Ercole d’Este’s gentlemen “wore golden chains, none of which cost less than 500 ducats, while many were worth 800, 1,000 and even 1,200 ducats.” When Beatrice d’Este went to Venice in May 1493, on an important mission for her husband, Ludovico Sforza, she took her most resplendent jewels and dresses, aiming to dazzle the hardheaded Venetians. Noting

their reaction at receptions and in the streets, she mimed it in a letter to Ludovico: “ “That is the wife of Signor Ludovico. Look what fine jewels she wears. What splendid rubies and diamonds she has!’”’ He was delighted. The display of wealth peaked in the exhibition of the prince’s treasure, a

practice best exemplified at the Sforza court but also observed in Venice. Ambassadors and dignitaries, who were likely to report what they saw, were taken by Ludovico to see the ducal treasure: a store of more than a million

ducats in gold, gems, plate, and statues of gold and silver. Visitors came away stunned by the marvels seen.

Luxurious ostentation at the courts was a display of power. Without such an exhibition, there was somehow no sufficient claim or title to the possession of power. Therefore the need to show. At the same time, to show was to act out a self-conception: I am prince and I can show it. The more I show it, the more I am what I claim to be. It was a dialectic of ambition and being. Luxurious ostentation was converted into an identity essence. But it was also the naked swagger of power, all the more so in that the mime took place—a deadly serious mime—within sovereign cities whose close spaces magnified pageantry. Princes went so far as to make no secret of borrowing silver plate and tapestries of satin and brocade for the grand occasions, so eager were they to strike the eye. The fifteenth century was, we have noted, an age of vigorous optimism and tremendous self-assurance for the ruling classes. Paradoxically, these were the very qualities in princes that could make for insecurity as to legal titles and the preservation of power. Sigismondo Malatesta once set out for Rome to kill the pope. Este brothers and bastards at Ferrara were ready to

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POWER AND IMAGINATION take power from close relatives, and so they had to show power through pomp. At Urbino the Montefeltro and Della Rovere took their start from bastards and from upstart, nepotist popes; hence they also had to show. At Milan the Sforza were a new dynasty, not recognized by the empire until Ludovico’s purchase of the ducal title, and even he pushed a nephew and grandnephew out of the way. Therefore the Sforza showed. The Borgias, made by the papacy, never stopped showing. And hemmed in by grandeur, the Gonzaga also hit on a more flattering identity in the practice of showing. The self-assured readiness for political adventure injected an element of insecurity into the life of the courts and turned ostentation into an identity

need. But there was another front of pressures that also drove the ruling groups toward unprecedented luxury: the growing concentration of wealth,

the slow rigidifying of the social order, and the gradual freezing of the groups at the top. This process of hardening encouraged luxury as a means of calling attention to status in a world of deepening social differences. Of course princes could favor whom they pleased, so that there was always an insignificant rise of new men into the elite ranks of government, but their descendants rarely endured, or they were absorbed into the aristocracy. In any case, the vast majority of leading political and ecclesiastical posts went to the rich old families, which did much to help keep them rich. The show of riches and the pursuit of self-images, and the show of riches

as the acting out or miming of a self-image: these operations, working around the prince, gave a centralized structure to the whole range of activities at court, a paradise for structuralists.

Ritual too was brought to bear: it went to frame and amplify the power of the court. Public occasions meant the sound of trumpets, cannon, drums, pipes, and the air trembling with bells. Duke Ercole produced eighty trumpeters for Lucrezia Borgia’s arrival in Ferrara. At Milan the major public festivities began with the duke’s arrival, the rolling of drums and the sound of trumpets and pipes. In the late 1480s, when Duke Guidobaldo da Montefeltro and his new wife, Elisabetta Gonzaga, visited their subject towns of Cagli and Gubbio, they were greeted by trumpets, bells, cannon fire, and

rows of children in long white dress, shouting, “Duca, Duca! Gonzaga, Gonzaga!” Milan’s bells rang for days on the occasion of the birth of

Ludovico’s first legitimate son. A joy to the prince was a joy for his subjects.

When the French invaded Italy in 1494 and again in 1499, Italian princes

and courtiers were surprised and repelled by the “disorder”—the lack of ceremony—in the French court. Cardinals were not shown all due respect. The king’s counselors ate, played cards, or casually sat around in his presence. He was swayed too easily and without ceremony. There was chaos and filth in the stables. Instead, the Italian courts were sharply conscious of rank, protocol, and organized households that made for tidiness. The kissing

of the prince’s hand was de rigueur. Ludovico Sforza insisted upon the

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The Princely Courts epithet “Illustrissima’”’ for his wife when she was still the duchess of Bari, not

yet of Milan. There was a punctilious use of titles in letters between brothers, between children and parents, and between husband and wife. Castiglione always addressed his mother as “Magnificent and honored madam, my

mother.” The first duke of Urbino, Federigo (d. 1482), specified three degrees of hospitality for the three orders of visitors: great, middling, and of small account. He also left a volume of rules touching the conduct of court ladies, the ducal table service, and the dress and cleanliness of servants. In the 1460s the Gonzaga were astonished by the bad manners of German noblemen and ambassadors; but they were coo] realists in matters of power, and though they would not bend the knee to the powerful upstart Sforza family, meetings with them were a choreography. Regarding a forthcoming meeting at Reggio in June 1465, the Gonzaga marchioness of Mantua wrote to her son Federico: “I think it well to warn you how to behave. First of all, as

soon as you see the Milanese party approach, you and your wife must dismount and advance to meet them with outstretched hands and courteous

reverence, Be careful not to bend your knee before them, but salute the illustrious duke and duchess, and shake hands with Filippo and Ludovico [younger sons], and also with Galeazzo [Maria, the eldest], if he is present and offers to shake hands. Dorotea [Federico’s sister] must also give him her hand and curtsey to him, but if he does not come forward, let her not move

a step. Then we will take the duchess up in our chariot and you must all three of you pay her reverence.”'® Instructions are also given regarding Dorotea’s dress.

The scene speaks for itself. Direct contact with power required ritual, a tribute paid in gestures. Publicly, power itself was also expressed through ritual and thus magnified. There was an appropriate language too, seen never

so much as in letters addressed to princes. The glossary of ritual terms highlighted loyalty and flattery, and centered on the notions of service, obeisance, and self-sacrifice. Here are two expressions: “My life is at your service.” “I live only insofar as I am in your excellency’s graces.”’ Another: “Nothing in the world pleases me more than your commands.” And another: “The sum of my every desire everywhere, always, and in every respect and turn of fortune good and bad is to carry out whatever your most illustrious lordship commands.” The variations were innumerable, and some crystallized into formulas. Courtly language also invaded literature and spilled out into more workaday human relations. In the 1520s and after, satirists began to attribute the fashion for deferential expressions and the runaway use of the epithets “lord” and “lordship”—claimed, it was said, by every lowborn adventurer—to the cursed impact of the Spanish hegemony in Italy. But this was moralism, not analysis. The fashion sprang from Italian society itself: with its ailing economy, widening social differences, enhanced emphasis on status, and accelerating rentier or courtly consciousness among the ruling groups. From this changing society and changed upper-class identity had

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POWER AND IMAGINATION come a seductive educational idea, first fully enunciated by Castiglione. He wrote to his mother from Rome on April 26, 1524, urging her to get his son

of six years, Camillo, to close his letters to Castiglione with the phrase “obedient son and servitor, so that he shall learn from an early age to be courteous [bumano].”'* In context, humano (echoing humanism) meant polite, courteous, courtly: a condition which, whether in service to the prince or not, recognized and paid tribute to rank.

Power girded itself with ritual to exact obeisance and to seem more imposing, more overbearing. Taking a leaf from the papacy’s notebook, the Italian courts would have raised ritual to a science. They combined it with pageantry—spectacle of the sort which serves, especially in difficult times, to captivate the senses and cloud the critical faculties. In this too the princely courts excelled.

Leonardo’s equestrian giant, commemorating Francesco Sforza, had promised to be the boldest self-image of the age. There was a contender, also never finished: Pope Julius II’s dream of his own tomb—sculptor, Michelangelo, /.nd here we touch upon the Renaissance rage for building.7® Art historians bury the why—and hence the sociology—of buildings by their excessive emphasis on questions of form and style. Most of the great

building projects of the Italian Renaissance, whether commissioned by a Cosimo de’ Medici (oligarch-prince), by Stanga counts (Cremonese aristocrats), or by a Pius II, had behind them the urge to exhibit now: to exhibit an identity, to show the power or piety of the man and his family dynasty, and to carve out a space in the city that would belong to that name, that individual and dynasty, for all times. In Ludovico Sforza’s time the churchmonastery of the Certosa of Pavia, started by the Visconti a hundred years before, was so clearly his ward that no visitor would have failed to associate the Sforza name with it. At Ferrara, having battened on the corrupt fruits of office, the rich ducal councilors from the Strozzi, Trotti, and Taruffo families fired the city’s hatred for them by building grand palazzi where they entertained princes. At Rome, about 1450, certain men in Pope Nicholas V’s entourage already noted the ideological power of “majestic buildings” and

advanced the view that papal patronage could thus be used to catch the admiration and fidelity of the unlettered multitude. Pope Sixtus [IV (d. 1484) spread the attendant benefits by establishing the right of rich clerics in Rome, chiefly cardinals and leading curialists, to build and bequeath houses to their heirs—which triggered a building boom in the city. All princes who could afford to do so—and many who could not—were

big builders. They erected residential palaces, villas, fortresses, new government buildings, churches, and convents; they also restored and renovated. Thus the Visconti and Sforza, Sigismondo Malatesta, Federigo da Montefeltro, Borso and Ercole d’Este, Federico II Gonzaga, the Farnese and Medici in Rome, and princelings like the Correggio, Stanga, Bentivoglio, Ghisilardi, Bottigella, Trivulzio, and Borromeo. Men of this stripe felt so

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The Princely Courts compelling an urge to build that, taking the few for the many, writers and architects came to believe that the desire to build on a large scale sprang from a basic human instinct. The swagger of grandiose building was the dance of wealth old and new,

and at the courts, it was a mark of power held and dynasty prolonged. In the fifteenth century, when power in the cities was secure beyond any precedent, elite contact with perceived reality was self-assured, with the result that taste in grand architectural activity lay closer to a criterion of use and practical reason. It was an age of manifest achievement. But in the sixteenth

century, after the sovereign controls over political reality had been torn from the hands of the big builders, then, in compensation and evasion, princes won by losing: they boasted in their building projects. The architectural accent became pompous or ultra-refined, showy and with a bent for

the irrational. A kindred transformation was to be found in much upperclass art and literature; the latter emphasized status and romance. But there was also a strong undertow of literary satire, which focused on the chaos and cynicism in government and leadership.

The foregoing review of courtly life has traced self-images in portraits and in surrounding objects such as tapestries, playing cards, sugar confections, dwarfs, pets, ostentatious luxury, the pageantry of public occasions, and the compulsion to build grandly. It remains to consider a few other interests that served the egocentrism of the courtly space. Art collections entered nicely into this space because they required large outlays of wealth and were a special kind of looking glass: expensive hobbies

to while away the time, subjects of polite conversation (Castiglione), and repositories of novelties and antiquities that reflected signorial tastes. The Medici, the dukes of Urbino, Ludovico Sforza, Isabella d’Este, and the first duke of Mantua, Federico II, were among the chief collectors of the time. There were also a few private collections, or their beginnings, among connoisseurs at Rome, Florence, and Venice. Art objects were an ornament, shown to the best advantage in the rooms of princes and rich collectors, in effect much like the fashionable plaquettes cut by leading goldsmiths, such as Caradosso, to be worn by gentlemen on their luxurious caps. When Piero de’ Medici fled from Florence late in 1494 and the Medici collection was threatened, Ludovico Sforza quickly had his ambassador there make inquiries, particularly about the objects that had been in Lorenzo the Magnifi-

cent’s personal study: “precious and portable things, that is, cameos, carnelians, medallions, coins, books, and such like gentilities [gentilezze].”'®

A generation later, at a sumptuous banquet given by the younger Ippolito d’Este in Ferrara, the host drew things from “a silver boat” and gave out “necklaces, bracelets, earrings, scented gloves, little scent boxes, and other gentilezze.”?° Gentilities: a revealing use of the word, meaning small objects fit for people of refined taste and gentle blood. But the objects in Ludovico’s

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POWER AND IMAGINATION list above were collected together with pictures, sculptures, and wellwrought glass, as in Isabella d’Este’s famous apartments. All these and princely libraries too—since books could also be gentilezze—were an ornament used to affirm a lordly identity. As it happens, after the death of his wife, Beatrice d’Este, Ludovico Sforza always used an official seal engraved with her image, a carnelian.

The main amusements at court, apart from the antics of buffoons, were cardplaying, chess, a game of ball, music, hunting, and more rarely jousting.

The preferred courtly songs, sung to the lute or to other stringed instruments, were often drawn from Petrarch’s sonnets; hence they were love songs of elevated, delicate, and at times playful sentiment. The joust was an urbane war dance done with horse, lance, and sometimes sword. At its best it kept courtiers fit for mounted combat, which was, in tandem with statecraft, the true office of the prince and courtier. At its worst, jousting was

little more than the occasion to dress up in gleaming armor and brilliant colors: a mime of war that gratified and flattered the court, while it dazzled the assembled crowds.

Hunting was the best-loved pastime, done during as much of the year as possible, often in large parties that rode out to special grounds and villas. These were appointed to impress and delight distinguished visitors. Women as well as men took passionately to the sport. The Este and Sforza sometimes rode thirty miles in a day. They employed falcons, hunting leopards, and scores of dogs, as well as nets and great sheets of tough cloth. They killed boar, wolves, bear, stag, deer, goat, hare, quail, and varieties of large birds. The sheets were used to cut off and direct the course of fleeing animals. In bourgeois Florence and Lucca, hunting on horseback was seen as the signorial sport par excellence. Done as at the courts, it could be nothing else. It required horsemanship, training, much time, and great expenditure, all of which would have been time and capital filched from the countinghouse, shop, and craft. As in their passion for jousting, accordingly, the Medici after Cosimo enhanced their lordly ways by their love of hunting, but even Lorenzo the Magnificent’s hunting cavalcades were very modest exercises compared to expeditions at Milan, Ferrara, Mantua, and Rome. Any well-dressed horseman seen bearing a falcon on a gloved hand was

almost, by that fact alone, a signore: lord, courtier, or gentleman with estates in the country. For falconing, deemed the most “noble” part of hunting, had a rich nomenclature, a place for well-paid experts (falconers), a ritual, and a variety of specialized hawks, such as peregrini, lanieri, astorelli, and altami. Alfanechi were imported from as far away as Russia and the Near East. The imagery of falconing penetrated courtly verse. Something of the falcon’s soaring grace, speed, and fierce eye made a vivid appeal to the courtly self-image.

It would be odd indeed to draw parallels between princes and birds of prey, or to make moralistic comments about the court’s callous attitudes toward poverty, its expenditure on game preserves, and its severe laws

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The Princely Courts against poaching. To moralize would be to fail to see the element of necessity in social identity at court. Princes and courtiers could not be other than they were. One observation, however, needs emphasis. There was a tight, organic link in consciousness between the self-centered, domineering outlook of the court and its spontaneous assumption that the goods of the earth existed first and foremost for its own enormous appetites and delectation. As Beatrice d’Fste said to her sister, the marchioness of Mantua, in a letter of

March 18, 1491, written from the Sforza hunting ground at Villanova: “Every day I am out on horseback with dogs and falcons and never do we return, the lord [Ludovico Sforza] my consort and I, without our having had infinite pleasures falconing. . . . There are so many hares, leaping up from all sides, that sometimes we know not which way to turn to have our pleasure, for the eye is incapable of seeing all that which our desire craves and which the country offers us of its animals.” The age had another speciality: bastardy. The fifteenth century in Italy has been called the golden age of bastardy. It might more accurately be called the age of golden bastards. Niccolo Ill d’Este (d. 1441) is alleged to have peopled Ferrara with them, he acknowledged more than twenty. Francesco Sforza had at least twenty-five; his son,

Ludovico, four at least and very likely more. Such children were often brought up at court, together with the children born in wedlock. They sometimes appeared in group portraits and came into substantial estates or handsome life incomes. Honorable and occasionally brilliant marriages were arranged for them. Otherwise, for the boys, there were rich benefices and a

career in the Church. The treatment accorded to the natural children of princes and well-placed men goes yet once more to point up the fifteenthcentury's psychology of flaunting self-assurance at the level of the upper classes, where courtiers and rich men happily acknowledged bastards and often had them legitimized by papal dispensation. But major honors went to the offspring of princes and rich aristocrats because this is where the titles and estates were; also because the shameless parading of power proudly singled out the bastards and thereby the potency of the father. Princesses

and court ladies had no such license, reaching for which they faced the penalty of death. And if Ludovico Sforza’s mistress, Cecilia Gallerani, was honorably married off to Count Ludovico Bergamini, a feudatory from the Cremonese, the whole world knew that she went to him with jewels, estates, and the hard promise of continuing favors. The fidelity of women was all, but power and money, come from the prince and filtered through courtly pomp, could work the miracle of toleration and the alchemy of repristinated honor. Something like this, though without the mysteries, also took place in

middle-class circles, when a poor girl, got with child by a bourgeois of “good family,” was dowered and put out in marriage to a humble working man in the country.

Bastardy, however, was no substitute for the guarantees of legitimacy.

239

POWER AND IMAGINATION Although courtly life and pleasures circled around the prince, the courtly establishment had its security in marriage, in the promise of legitimate heirs whose existence eased the succession and promised the continuation of the dynasty. Marriage also made important friends and helped to solidify the existing rule. Indeed, the forging of political alliances was the fundamental fact about princely marriages in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries. Never was marriage arranged with a colder eye for political and dynastic interests. Parents and guardians disposed fully of their children and wards. Frequently the prince made the dowry arrangements and chose the spouses of courtiers and their daughters or nieces. In this fashion he also sealed loyalties and looked to the dynasty’s future servitors. Isabella d’Este’s marriage to Francesco Gonzaga was the binding together

of two old houses and two neighboring states. Her sister’s marriage to

Ludovico Sforza lent the burnish of an ancient house to the ambitious and “illegal” Sforza,?? but in return the Este picked up a powerful ally, or so it very much seemed in 1491. They had also made a strong bond in the south, with Duke Ercole’s marriage (1473) to Eleonora d’Aragona, eldest daughter to King Ferrante of Naples, though this was to wrench Ferrara’s ties with Venice. Pope Julius II bought respectability and distinction of stock for the

Della Rovere upstarts in the marriage (1509) of his nephew, Francesco Maria della Rovere, duke of Urbino, to a princess of the Gonzaga house; the purchase price was a cardinal’s hat for Sigismondo Gonzaga, brother to the marquis of Mantua. And Ludovico Sforza bought Milan’s ducal title with a

dowry of 400,000 ducats on the occasion of his niece’s marriage to the emperor designate, Maximilian. But the most methodical use of marriage was made by Alexander VI and Cesare Borgia, for whom Lucrezia, respectively daughter and sister, was an instrument in the Borgian carving out of a state for Cesare. In the sixteenth century, in response to the shock and insecurities of the Italian Wars, Italian princes aspired to stronger alliances still and so to ties of marriage with the French and Spanish royal houses.

Of all the court’s occasions and activities, marriage was the one most strictly determined by the interests of the prince; it was the fulfillment of an inherited self-image. Here the prince stood in his most distinguishing guise, the holder of power, taking the first real step towards preserving the dynasty and transmitting that power.

240

CHAPTER XIII

ART:

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PATRONAGE AND PROPAGANDA sculptures made for patrons, not for an open market. As late as \" and power inwere Renaissance Italy went hand in hand. Pictures and

the 1560s, an artist was likely to lose face and standing if he produced and sold unsolicited works. The important patrons, lay and ecclesiastical, came largely from among the urban ruling groups. Architecture, the voie royale of patronage and the umbrella art for the “lesser” arts, was for the monied taste of popes, princes, oligarchs, and rich men; for the state, and for organized groups of the sort that drew men of substance together in leading guilds and religious confraternities. Even Carpaccio’s famous cycle of the life of St. Ursula (1490s), exécuted for one of Venice’s more modest confraternities, the Scuola of St. Ursula, had the patronage of Nicolo Loredan— born to one of the city’s richest and most illustrious houses—and the cycle

shows his family arms, family portraits, and the ex voto ciphers of his patronage.

One can say of cities, “Tell me how their space is distributed and I will tell you who governs or owns them”; and one can say of Italian Renaissance cities, ““Tell me who owns the imposing palazzi or let me study the family chapels in the different churches, and I will tell you who the princes, oligarchs, and rich men are and who their patron saints.” Masaccio’s tenements (Fig. 4 in insert of illustrations) are the backside of the fifteenth century’s “ideal cities” (Fig. 15). Articulation of the urban space was dialectical, a question of relations between wealth and poverty, churches and lay dwellings.

It was also a question of other social balances: of where the prepotent families were concentrated, of where they had their houses, churches, or waterfront. Powerful bishops had once been a decisive force in the layout of the urban space. When Cosimo de’ Medici, after about 1436, began to move out of his quarter of the city to offer massive charitable support for

241

POWER AND IMAGINATION the restoration of religious buildings in other parts of Florence, he roused

fears and envies. Whatever his private motives, his actions seemed the stealthy movements of an aspiring tyrant. The psychology of eminent men was a datum in Florentine spatial arrangements. Cosimo’s activity posed a threat to the controls of other old families in the private chapels that had long belonged to their patronage. More was involved than the saying of Masses for deceased kinfolk: the manner of the banker’s patronage prefigured a shift in the axis of Florentine political power. However, a change in patronage rarely involved anything so far-reaching. Domenico Ghirlandaio’s great

frescoes in the Tornabuoni (choir) chapel of Santa Maria Novella (14851490), which cost about 1,100 florins, got there by conventional oligarchic means: the chapel had long been the property of the once prominent Ricci family, but Giovanni Tornabuoni hired Ghirlandaio to decorate the chapel, and then managed to get it associated with his own name by means of money, tricky promises, cleverly placed armorial bearings, and influence in one of the Florentine courts. Giovanni was closely related by marriage to the Medici.

Looking back to the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries from modern times, we sort out a segment of experience and call it “art.” The men and women of the early Italian Renaissance did not look merely to art, often not at all. Their eyes were primed to find a religious meaning, and the subject matter of Italian Renaissance art was overwhelmingly religious. It was, in the truest sense, propaganda—that which was to be propagated. A religious picture might serve not only as a profession of faith but also to help convey doctrine, to prop up belief, to remind sinners of their obligations, or even as a voice in defense of the Church. The fact that militant Protestantism turned violently against the imagery of the old Church, and so against religious painting and sculpture, shows that communities instinctively recognized the educational and propagandistic intent of religious art.

The deep-rooted habit of reading the products of the figurative imagina-

tion will be a point to keep in mind, for patrons and viewers did not abandon it with the entry of ever more worldly themes into the subject matter of Renaissance art.

When a chapel, a fresco, a statue, or a church facade was made on commission from an association of merchants or a religious confraternity, as was common down to 1600, it was distinctly associated with a group. Here

already, in the bonds between piety and the pride of an organized group, was the visual affirmation of a special interest. At Florence, in the first half of the fifteenth century, the big cloth merchants, working via their guilds, openly asserted their dominant place in the community. They controlled the

public monies earmarked for work on the cathedral and Baptistery (the _ patronal church), and they took major decisions in the most important artistic projects of the period—Ghiberti’s bronze doors, the statuary at Orsanmichele, and Brunelleschi’s dome. Corporate patronage of a different sort belonged to the state, as when the

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ict Co eS Basco ennmenron ces LEE SRE BRT 3G RRSRSERSS BRE geReap ES SSIS BRS, aR RRR SSS BRS SMR BURSA Gite’ «oat SO CR REGS Pires, saint aninniaeoy encen aSR ARR aeITBBs roe GRR spe Lot NkePOONER ii, Se ee Spee spipagnnn. Ree ta2aaee SSR By, . Fg Si a .aeON Bodin ING nat «1 REROLE eseee, See ane oe’ SASS. Be Poa ge BSS Se Ses an aeLo Biter. ee| st es Soa: Beat ae oh BRSORE . Bs iaasSRS rhe aa acaaeASG Ra :SR NGSS NT tySAY Ly Sages 2o RUE Rn EER SecSoy Sateae Ret aeBe, PES RENEE SS [oeoma Ba. eaeee Be RR OS RS Pasa Seaee e PA Se ERR ae RE a ARR :See RRS sc oS SEES RR Se See EN aA: HER Se a Senay eee a:OE SeSony, ape om.tek ey i nN sn 435 Doria rule, 138, 154-6, 169~70, 181, 252~3, 254-5, 285, 286-7; economic conditions, 169, _ 269-70, 290; oligarchy, 71, 148-9, 154-6, 170, 295, 337; fiscal affairs, 176-81 passim, 185, 215, 219, 252-3; VS. papacy, 135, guilds, 60, 77-8, 186; in Italian Wars, 131, 278, 294; vs. Pisa, 131, 170, 185, 252, 280, 279, 283-8 passim, 295, 296; nobility, 28, 283, 290; political thought, 73, 115-23, 29, 30, 31, 36, 38, 40, 78, 101, 131-2, 138, 127-8, 198, 310-11, 312, 316, 336; popular 169-70, 220, 262; oligarchy, 132, 185, 186, armed societies, 41, 51, §2, §8, 60; popular 219, 335-6; Vs. Pisa, 22, 96; podestaral commune, 48, 49, 54, 58, 67, 68, 69, 70, government, 43, 50, 65; popular com132; population, 168, 295; Priorate, 136, mune, 48, 60, 68; population, 168, 169, 150, 154, 155, 156, 158; republic, 71, 94, 170; republic, 71, 97, 130, 131-2, 138, 139, IOI, 130, 132, 133, 135-7, 138, 139, 140-2, 140, 287, 335-0; signorial rule, 71, 101, 219, 251-4, 278, 279, 285, 290, 294, 298, 130; social divisions and mobility, 97-8, 335; Savonarola, 279, 290, 305; vs. Siena, 131-2, 139; textile industry, 169, 187, 188; 22, 137, 287; signorial rule, 94, 96, 130, trade and wealth, 131, 170; Venice com147, 278; social mobility, 139; Society of pared with, 131-2; wages, 187; wars with the Faithful, 113, subject cities, 131, 170, Venice, 88-9, 171, 178, 179; weakness of 185, 280; textile industry, 169, 173, 186, popular movement, 40, 41, 60, 68, 131, 132

188; wages, 173, 187 Gentile da Fabriano, 247, 251, 255, 263, 264 361

Index

Gherardesca, Ugolino della, 96 Hauser, Arnold, 255

Gherardesca family (Pisa), 28, 104, 114 Heers, Jacques, 188

Ghiara d’Adda, 280 Henry II, Emperor, 8, 10 254, 258, 262 Henry IV, Emperor, 8-9, 13, 16, 17, 23, 24

Ghiberti, Lorenzo, 242, 244, 247, 248, 251, Henry IJ, Emperor, 8, 16 Ghirlandaio, Domenico, 242, 245, 247, 258, Henry V, Emperor, 23

262, 263 Henry VI, Emperor, 26

Gianni, Lapo, 75 Henry VII, Emperor, 97-8, 103 Giannotti, Donato, 312-13, 316 Henry II, King of France, 287 Giorgione, 245, 246, 248, 261, 271, 274 hereditary rule, see authority Giotto, 58, 243, 246, 249-50, 253, 254, 333 heresy, 87, 124, 308, 334, 335

Giovanni da Prato, 193 Hildebrand, archbishop of Florence, 16

Giovanni di Paolo, 244, 247, 260, 275 historical study and writing, 194, 195-8, Girolami, Remigio de’, 126, 127-8, 202 208, 209-10, 315, 333, 336-7; popolo leg-

Giustiniani, Bernardo, 197, 207, 211 acy in, 59, 63, 65 Guustiniani, Leonardo, 202, 207 History of Italy (Guicciardini), 304, 310,

Gonzaga, Carlo, 144 312, 315, 328, 335

Gonzaga, Ercole, 306 Hohenstaufen dynasty, 24

Gonzaga, Federico, 222, 228, 231, 232, 235 Holy Alliance (1526), 285

Gonzaga, Federico II, 236, 237, 309 Holy League (1511), 282

Gonzaga, Ferrante, 219, 222, 286, 291 humanism, 141, 148, 158, 191-217, 246-7, 253, Gonzaga, Francesco, 222, 224, 228, 231, 240, 258-9, 263, 318, 332, 333; elitism of, 191-2,

306 197, 198-9, 201, 205-7, 209, 215, 276, new

Gonzaga, Sigismondo, Cardinal, 220, 240 disciplines, 208-10; origins, 201~7; topics, Gonzaga family, 218-34 passim, 287, 292, 207-17 307; as art patrons, 256, 265, 267-8, 272, hunting, 238-9

303; Mantegna portrait, 263, 268, 260;

sIgnOry, IOI, 108, 110 idealism, 299-301, 317, 322-31, 333, 334-5

government, 148; changes during Italian Imola, 105, 223, 225, 280, 293 Wars, 295-6; constitutional, Venice, 312— Index of Forbidden Books, 334, 335 14; consular commune, 27-9, 43, 1493 Innocent VIII, Pope, 306, 310 cost, rise in, 64, 110, 175-6; inadequacy Inquisition, 297, 308, 334 in coping with invasions, 288-9, 294; interest rates, 176-7, 179, 225 oligarchical, 148-50, 156-61; podestaral, International Gothic style, 249, 251, 260,

41-4; popular commune, 54~5, 63, 64; 263, 264

signorial, 62, 63, 64, 102-10. See also ex- Investiture controversy, 8, 16

ecutive powers; judicial powers; legis- investment, 163-4, 167, 170, 171-2, 173, ,

lative powers; office-holding 176-7, 183, 337

Gozzoli, Benozzo, 258, 262, 263, 264-5 Italian League (1455), 278

grammar, 192, 194, 195, 203 Italian Wars (1494-1559), 219, 224, 240,

Great Council, see Venice: Great Council 262, 277-87, 288; conditions of infirmity,

Gregory VII, Pope, 17, 23 294-5; effects of, 295-6, 322; reflected in Gregory VIII, antipope, 7 art and literature, 299, 301, 302-4, 315-16, Guarini, Guarino, 192, 195, 197, 201, 202, 322, 326, 333-4

206, 211 Italic kingdom, 7-8, 12, 13

Guarino, Battista, 192, 193, 201 , Ivani, Antonio, 189

Guicciardini, Francesco, 100, 221, 288, 290, 300, 302, 303, 304, 310, 312, 315-16, 328; John of Viterbo, 117

placed on Index, 335 Jones, P. J., 165

Guicciardini family (Florence), 156, 181 judicial powers: in consular commune, 27,

Guidi family (counts), 24, 30, 61, 69 29, 37, 149; Of guilds, 50; of podesta, 42-

guilds, 11, 38-41, 46-53 passim, 68, 70, 77-8, _ 3, 107; in popular commune, 54-5; in 86, 151; artisan vs. merchant, 38-40, 133- republican oligarchies, 150, 156, 159, 160;

6, 186-7; as art patrons, 241, 242, 250, of signori, 105, 107 | 251, 252-3; exclusory policies, 67, 133, Julius IT, Pope, 221, 230, 236, 240, 243-4, 134, 136, 137, 186, Organization, 51, 60, 281-2, 283, 288, 290, 294, 306, 310

68, 77; origins, 38-40; palazzj, 65; i , , Guinigi family (Lucca), 36, 158 role in rise of commune, 18-19. See alsa 60, aes ere 2 signories, om, 5 in Ports Knights, 10-1 fe 30, 41, 45, 48, ary 1705

Guinizzelli, Guido, 80 captains; vavasors

Guittone d’Arezzo, 112, 114 labor: forced, 167, 223, 290, 337; needs and

shortages, 163, 166, 171, 189-90 : Hartt, Frederick, 259 Lampugnani, Giorgio, 145 Hapsburg dynasty, 284, 285 Ladislaus, King of Naples, 251-2 362

Index Lampugnani family (Milan), 141, 145 Lodi, 11, 23, 24, 25, 113, 141, 143; popular

Lana guild, 67, 134, 136 commune, 48; signorial rule, 101

Lancia, Manfredo, g5 Lodi, Peace of (1454), 278

Landino, Cristoforo, 193, 211, 213-14 Lombard Leagues: First, 25-6; Second, 57

Lando, Ortensio, 298, 302 Lombardy, 8, 11, 13, 25-6, 84, 100, 162, 169, Landriano, battle of (1529), 284 278, 292, 337; in Italian Wars, 282-3, 284, landscape painting, 166, 259, 267 291, 295; land holdings, 100, 162, 166, Landulf, archbishop of Milan, 10 167, 185; popular communes, 70; signoland use and ownership, 9-11, 13, 15, 16, 23, ries, 102

34-5, 162, 163-5, 166-7, 183, 337 Lombieni, Luca, 228

Lane, Frederick, 172 Loredan, Nicolo, 241

language, 296, 317-22; Classical, 191-3, 198, Lorenzetti, Ambrogio, 80, 246 208, 318-19, 322; courtly, 235-6, 319-22; Lorenzo, Bicci di, 244

vernacular, 65, 83, 118, 193, 318-22, Loschi, Antonio, 206 333 Lottini, Giovan Francesco, 314, 316-17 Larner, John, 106 Louis XI, King of France, 278

Latin, 192, 198, 208, 318-19, 322 Louis XII, King of France, 277, 278, 279, Latini, Brunetto, 63, 64, 72-3, 115-23, 126, 280-3, 289, 294, 303 128, 193, 202, 204, 205; On city govern- Lovati, Lovato, 204, 205

ment, 116-22 love lyric, 221, 238, 322, 323-8, 335

Lautrec, Viscount Odet de, 284 lower classes, 15, 180, 186-90, 298, 313-14,

law, 149, 302; anti-magnate, 57-8, 63, 69; 317. See also tenant farmers; workers

consular period, 27; Langobard, 10; no- Lucca, 9, 11-12, 15, 16, 23, 25, 64, 100, 157,

taries, 54, 63, 203, 204; philosophy of, 172, 238, 278, 292; citizenship and office129; regalian rights, 13, 25, 175; Roman, holding, 148, 151; civil wars, 40, 41, 54; 10, 25, 203, 209, 332; signorial, 63, 102-3; clerical rivalry, 307; commune, 18, 23,

study of, 195, 199, 203, 209 24; craftsmen’s revolt, 133, 137; fiscal

League of Cambrai (1508), 281-2 affairs, 176, 178; vs. Florence, 22, 137, 179, League of Cognac (1526), 284 252; nobility, 36, 158, 169; oligarchy, 148, League of Tuscan Cities (Guelf), 96, 100 185; Pisan rule, 108; podestaral commune,

League of Venice (1495), 279-80 50; popular commune, 47-8, 54, 132; pop-

legislative powers (councils), 42, 149; con- ular armed societies, 52; population, 137, sular commune, 27, 29, 105; podestaral 168; republic, 71, 94, TOI, 130, 132, 133, commune, 42, 44; popular commune, 47- 137, 139, 285, 335-6; signorial rule, 94, 8, 54, 67; republican oligarchy, 148-9; 96; silk industry, 169, 188

signorial government, 103-6, 107 Luther, Martin, 308

Legnano, battle of (1176), 26 Luzzatto, Gino, 172, 183 Lenzi, Lorenzo, 254

Leo IX, Pope, 8 Macerata, 10 Leo X, Pope, 219, 224, 243, 282-3, 284, 290, Machiavelli, Niccolo, 100, 116, 196, 208,

294, 303, 304, 306, 310 221, 283, 288, 290, 298, 299-300, 303, 305,

Leonardi, C., 260 310-11, 315-16, 318, 320, 336; on Index,

Leone di Benedetto, 9 335; [he Prince, 125, 299, 311, 315, 328 Liguria, 166 Malatesta, Carlo, 109 Lippi, Filippino, 190 Malatesta, Sigismondo, 233, 236 Lippi, Fra Filippo, 251, 254, 255, 258, 262, Malatesta family (Rimini), ror, 108, 220,

263, 264~5, 273, 274 222, 223, 230, 290

lira (personal property tax), 176, 181 Manetti, Giannozzo, 207, 216-17, 335

literacy, 64, 164, 322 Manfredi family (Faenza), 220, 222

literature, 166; anticlerical, 307, 310; maniera greca (Italo-Byzantine style), 250 courtly, 227, 231-2, 235, 237, 323-313 Mannerism, 218, 276, 296, 300, 314, 327, 334 High Renaissance, 283, 296, 298, 299-301, manorial system, decline of, 9, 162 315, 322-31; humanist, 211-17; idealism Mansueti, Giovanni, 261, 262, 270 IN, 299-301, 317, 322-31, 333, 334-53 Mantegna, Andrea, 166, 243-7 passim, 255, Index, 334, 335; language question, 317- 256, 259, 260-9 passim, 273, 274-5, 276 22; popolo’s legacy in, 59, 63-6, 72-3, 83, Mantua, 10, 11, 23, 132, 167, 278, 295; art, 87-93, 115-23, 333; realism, 203, 299-301, 256, 265, 267-8; commune, 19, 21, 473 311, 316, 323, 324, 333. See also historical court, 218-26 passim, 238, 309-10; courtly

study and writing; poetry; political literature, 323, 329; duchy, 237; fiscal

thought and writing affairs, 178, 182, 184, 223, 226; Gonzaga Livorno, 131, 170, 295 rule, 219, 272, 237, 287; humanists, 202;

Livy, 141, 195 in Italian Wars, 282, 285, 287; language loans, 176-8, 289, 337; “forced,” 64, 176, debate, 318, 319; nobility, 30, 101; po-

177-8, 179, 180, 182-3 desta, 42, 43; population, 168; signorial 363

Index

Mantua (cont'd) 200; vs. Barbarossa, 24-5, 26; bourgeoisie, rule, 97, 100, 101, 104, 105, 110, 185 140, 143, 144-5, 147; citizenship, 47, 67;

Marcello, Giacomo Antonio, 268 civil wars, 31, 32, 40, 41, 47, 49, 51, 59,

Mari, Angelerio de, 34 67, 95, 97; Clergy, 50, 51, 305, 307; com-

Mari family (Genoa), 28, 29 43 mune, 17-18, 19, 23, 29, 47, 140, 142-3;

marquisates, marquises, 12, 14, 19, 20, 30, Consiglio delle Provvisioni, 104, 106, 107,

218, 221, 222-3 142-3; consular government, 38, 39;

marriage, 256; princely, 225-6, 232, 240 Council of Nine Hundred, 103, 104, 106, Marsilius of Padua, 64, 126, 129, 335 142-3, 145-6; COUIt, 219-24 passim, 225-

Marsupini, Carlo, 212 7, 231, 234, 238; courtly literature, 323, Martelli, Ludovico, 320 329; Credenza of St. Ambrose, 39-40, 41, Martin V, Pope, 278 49, 51, 59, 60, 67, 95, 113; duchy, 142, 182,

Martini, Francesco di Giorgio, 271 220, 223, 234, 240, 278-9, 283, 285, 291; Masaccio, 190, 241, 244, 248, 251, 253-66 famines, 145, 146, 163; feudal vestiges,

passim, 276, 333 95-6, 100; fiscal affairs, 49, 141, 143-4, 147, Maso di Banco, 250 176-84 passim, 223, 224, 230, 291; vs. Flor-

Masolino da Panicale, 251, 254 ence, 146, 178, 203, 252; under foreign

Maximilian, Emperor, 225 230, 232, 240, rule, 219, 277-8, 280-7; vs. Frederick II,

279, 281~3, 284, 291 59; French claim to, 277, 278, 279, 282, Mazzone, Giovanni, 262 291; guilds, 38, 39-40, 60, 186; heretics, Medici, Alessandro de’, 285-6 87; humanists, 191, 202, 208; imperial Medici, Catherine de’, 286 vicariate, 106, 107, 108, 142; industry, 169, Medici, Cosimo de’, 215-16, 236, 241-2, 245, 184, 188; in Italian Wars, 279-80, 282-7,

265, 287 288, 291; language debate, 318, 319; legis-

Medici, Giovanni Bicci de’, 254 lative council of popolo, 67; Motta, 59,

Medici, Giovanni de’ Cardinal, 220, 306. 67, 102; nobility, 28, 30, 31, 36, 38, 40, 59,

See also Leo X, Pope 67, 70, 95-6, 97, 100, 102, 143-8 passim,

Medici, Giuliano de’, 294 220, 291; Oligarchy, 140, 141-7, 215; pa-

Medici, Lorenzo de’, 158, 211, 219, 227, 229, lazzt, 236, 256-7, 272; Pataria, 16-18, 19; 237, 238, 243, 290; as art patron, 265; as vs. Pavia, 22, 71, 141; podestaral rule, 43,

poet, 318, 333 44, 47, 50; popular commune, 47, 50, 59,

Medici, Piero de’, 219, 237, 265, 279, 290 67, 70, 95-6, 97; population, 23, 168-9, Medici family, 139, 151, 155, 211, 214, 220, 295; signorial rule, 95-6, 97, 101-10 pas-

227, 238, 283, 292, 294, 306-7; and art and SIM, 137-41 passim, 147, 185, 186; subject architecture, 236, 237, 272; fall of 1494, cities, 141, 143, 144, 185, 278; twenty-four 141, 147, 279, 290; finances, 181, 243; captains, 142-4, 145-6; vs. Venice, 144,

patronage, 219; rise of, 179, 252-3 146, 178, 278, wages, 187 Melegnano, battle of (1515), 283 militia, citizen, 44, 52; end of, 108 Meloria, battle of (1284), 96, 101 Mirandola, Pico della, 325 Melozzo da Forli, 262, 263, 269 Modena, 11, 57, 113, 167, 225, 285, 294;

Memmo, Giovan Maria, 312 armed companies, 51; commune, 24, 48;

Menabuoi, Guisto de’, 250 population, 168; signorial rule, 101

mercenaries, 51, 63-4, 108, 143, 176, 178, Monaldeschi family (Orvieto), 99

222, 277-8, 290 monarchists, 312, 313, 317, 335-6

merchants, 9-10, 14, 39, 40, §1, 62, 175, 188- money, 79-86, 211-12, 214 9, 192-3; moving into nobility, 28, 29, 30, “Money makes the man” (Rossi), 83, 85 46, 68-9; noblemen as, 30, 31, 60-1, 86, Monferrato, 219, 222, 279, 287 138, 169-70, 171-2; and popolo, 51, 59- Montefeltro, Federigo da, 224, 226, 235,

60, 63, 67-8 236, 293

Merula, Giorgio, 197 Montefeltro, Guidobaldo da, 222, 234 metals industry, 184, 188 Montefeltro family, 220, 227, 234, 259 mezzadria, 163, 165, 167 Montemurlo, Ranieri da, 58 Michelangelo Buonarroti, 230, 236, 243-4, Montone, Braccio da, 222

246, 247, 255, 258, 303, 334 moralists, 89-93, 210-14, 300 Michelozzo di Bartolommeo, 246 Morelli, Giovanni, 81 middle class, 14, 15, 256, 298; artists, 244-5; Morone, Giovanni, Cardinal, 306, 309 in commune (Cives), 14, 15, 16-18, 19, Motta, of Milan, 59, 67, 102 21; humanists, 206; popolo, 47, 59, 61, 66- | Mussato, Albertino 204, 205 9; and Protestantism, 309, 310; rise of, 9; Muzio, Girolamo, 321 ca. 1200, 38-41, 47. See also bourgeoisie; mysticism, 87, 297, 305, 309, 316, 335 popolani

Migliorini, Bruno, 321 Nanni di Banco, 251, 254

Milan, 8, 10-16 passim, 22-3, 39-40, 125, Naples, 141, 142, 143, 219-23 passim, 240, 137, 295, 298; Ambrosian republic, 140-8, 251, 278, 284-9 passim, 294, 296; Byzan-

364

Index tine rule, 8, 12; French claim to, 277-9, Orto IV, Emperor, 47 280-1, 286, 287, 289; partition of 1500, Ottoman Turks, 171, 261, 270, 278, 279,

280-1; Spanish rule, 281, 287 280-1, 284, 292

nationalism, limited, 288, 321 Orttonian (Saxon) dynasty, 7-8, 10 neighborhood organization, 35~-8, 40, 68; Ovetari, Antonio, 243 armed, 40-1, 51-3, 54, 77; 78

Nelli, Pietro, 300 Padua, 10, 11, 14, 25, 56, 64, 125, 282; anti-

Neoplatonism, 214, 324, 325-8 despotism treaty, 94; art, 243; commune, nepotism (papal), 293-4, 297, 306 24, 41; fiscal affairs, 178; guilds, 39, 60; Nicholas V, Pope, 201, 236, 293 landowners, 166-7, 172; podesta, 107;

Nicodemism, 309 population, 34, 168, 295; pre-humanists,

nobility (mobilta): 11th century, 14, 15-16, 204; signorial rule, 62, 95, 98, 102, 105, 30; 12th century, 30-3, 35-8, 40-1; 13th 107, 109, 147, 185; subjugation by Venice, century, 45-6, 84, 164-5; 16th century, 166-7, 172, 185; vs. Verona, 98 298, 302, 313; communes, role in rise of, painting, 86, 190, 242, 243, 247, 249-70, 17-24 passim, 31-2, 184; of consular 332, 333; Manner, 260, 262, 264-71; porcommune, 24, 29-33, 42, 44, 61, 184; traits, 229, 254, 258, 263, 265, 268, 269-70; feudal, 7-14 passim, 21, 23, 30, 41, 62, 70, princely images, 229, 231; styles, 249-51, 100, 101, 132, 162, 166, 175, 220, 279, 289; 258-9, 260-3; urban images, 166, 250, 251,

literary debate on, 212-14; mercantile, 267, 274-6. See also art

30, 31, 60-1, 86, 138, 169-70, 171-3, 174- palazzi, 65, 236, 241, 256-7, 258, 271-2, 334,

5; nobles as allies of popolo, 45, 46, 70; 337

and podesta, 42, 43, 44; vs. popalo, 40-1, Palladio, Andrea, 273 45-6, 47-0, 53, 56-8, 68-9, 138, 176, 184; Pallavicini, Oberto, 62 , tor and Protestantism, 309; and republican- Pallavicini family, 220, 291, 292 ism, 138-9 (see also oligarchy, republi- Palmieri, Matteo, 189, 194, 201

can); and signorial rule, 97-102, 108, Panizzato, Niccolo, 228 138-9, 185. See also upper classes papacy, 124, 218, 225, 278, 334; vs. emper-

notaries, 54, 63, 203, 204 Ors, 7, 8-9, 13, 16, 17, 23, 24, 284-6; in

Novara, 11, 30, 124, 141, 143, 144, 296 Italian Wars, 279, 280-6, 287, 292-4;

numismatics, 208, 209 power politics of, 292-4, 297, 310; rival

factions, 8, 9; rule over city-states, 131,

oath, 86; of office, 123-4 132, 133-4, 135, 218, 220, 222, 281, 289, Odofredo (jurist), 113, 164-5 territory, 8, 220, 289-90, 293. See also office-holding: appointive power, clerical popes

and imperial, 13~14, 25, 102, 105-6; bond Papal State, 219, 220, 224, 278, 287, 289-90,

holders, 180; in consular commune, 28, 294, 295, 337

29, 152; Cooptation, 105, 153; ecclesiasti- papal vicariates, 102, 106, 108, 218, 220, 289,

cal, 172, 183, 302, 305-6; by lot, 118, 152, 293

153-5; patronage and nepotism, 219, 292- Pareto, Vilfredo, 171 4, 295, 297, 302, 305-6; in popular com- Parma, 11, 36, 141, 167, 283, 284, 287, 294, mune, 47-8, 49, 55, 133, 184; in republican 296; commune, 18, 24, 48; as duchy and oligarchies, 136, 148-56, 158-9; “scrutiny” fief of Church, 286, 294 of, 151~5 passim; under signories, 104—5, Paruta, Paolo, 312, 314, 316, 317

106-7 Pascual II, Pope, 23

offices: literature on, 117; podestaral com- Passageri, Rolandino, 57, 64, 202 mune, 44, 116; popular government, 54-5, P ataria, of Milan, 16-18, 19 64, 133; purchase of, 8, 15, 16-17, 225, patriotism, local, 22, 111-12, 123, 125, 127,

240, 304-5, 306; terms of, 149-50 288

oligarchy, republican, 62, 64, 66, 71, 99, Patrizi da Cherso, Francesco, 334, 335, 336,

104, 110, 119, 129, 130-61, 185, 196, 200, 344.

215, 252-3, 335-6; Constitutional, 148; Patrizi of Siena, Francesco, 194 elite, two-tier, 156, 157, 158; government, patronage, art, 211-12, 241-4, 246, 255-6,

nature of, 148-50, 156-61; office-holding 258-9, 265-6, 273-4, 302-4; corporate, in, 136, 148-56, 158-9, 174; selection of 241, 242-3, 250, 251, 252-3; papal, 241, office-holders, 150-9; vs. princely courts, 243-4, 303, 304; princely, 214, 218-19, 219-20, 221. See also republicanism 241, 247-8, 302-3; by oligarchs, 241, 242,

Ordelaffi, Cecco. degli, 103 243, 246, 250, 253, 254-5, 258-9

Orlando Furioso (Ariosto), 232, 301, 323 patronage, political, and nepotism, 219,

Orsini family, 220, 279, 289, 292 292-4, 295, 297, 302, 305-6

Orvieto, 99; art, 244 Paul II, Pope, 225, 310

Ossana, Giovanni da, 145, 146, 147 Paul III, Pope, 286, 294

Orto.I, Emperor, 8 Paul IV, Pope, 287

Orto II, Emperor, 10 Pavia, 8, 10, 11, 25, 35, 64, 125, 144, 296; 365

Index

Pavia (cont'd) Plato, 196, 198, 199, 212, 314, 326-7, 331 battle of (1525), 284; Church reform Platonism, 301, 322, 325-8, 335

efforts, 307; commune, 18; despotism, 62, podesta, 41-4, 47, $4-5, 56, 94, 125; liter+71; humanists, 208; vs. Milan, 22, 71, 141; ature on role of, 116-22, 124; in signorial podesta, 67; popolo, 63, 65, 67, 68; popu- government, 105, 107 lation, 168, 169, 295; Spanish sack of, 295 podestaral communes, 41-4, 50, 54, 55 Pazzi family (Florence), 61, 69, 214, 272 poetry, 73, 74-5, 80-5, 283, 333, 335; Anon-

Pepoli, Taddeo, 69, 103 imo Genovese, 66, 87-93; humanist,

Perugia, 12, 34, 36, 64, 99, 101, 283; Baglioni 193-4, 203, 214; language question, 318—

court, 220, 222; citizenship and office- 21; lyric, 221, 238, 322, 323-8; at princely

holding, 148, 150-1, 153~4; class conflict, COUItS, 232, 323-8; realist school, 74, 8097, 133-4; craftsmen’s revolts, 59, 133-4, 4, 203; Stilnovo, 30, 65-6, 74, 75, 80, 82, 137, 139; fiscal affairs, 176; nobility, 133- 203, 324 4, 153, 290; Oligarchy, 148, 185; popular Poggio Bracciolini, 197, 201, 206, 207, 211,

armed societies, 41, 52; popular com- 213, 215-16; on Index, 335

mune, 49, 68; Raspanti guildsmen, 133-4, political thought and writing, 59, 63, 109, 1§3; as republican stronghold, 130, 131, 111-29, 200, 333, 336; Constitutions, 312132, 133-4, 137, 139; signorial rule, 130, 14, 316-17; High Renaissance, 298-9,

132 310-17; humanist, 195-8, 207-8, 213-14;

Perugino (Pietro Vannucci), 247, 248, 255, maintenance of privilege, 184-5, 186, 191;

258, 259, 262, 265, 273, 274, 276 religious concerns in, 112-15, 123-5, 126;

Pesaro, 220, 223, 280 secular discourse, 125-9

Pesellino, Il (Francesco di Stefano), 265 political patronage, see patronage, political Petrarch, 191, 192, 193, 196, 199, 203, 206, politics, as career, 157-60, 174-5 208, 216, 288, 318, 319-20, 321; on Index, Poliziano, Angelo, 193, 206, 208-9, 211, 214,

335 232, 318, 325

Petrarchan love lyrics, 238, 322, 323-7 Pollaiuolo brothers, 244, 247, 255, 262

Philip II, King of Spain, 287 polygraphs (poligrafi), 300 philology, 192, 200, 208-9, 210 Pontormo, Jacopo da, 299

philosophy, 191, 194, 198, 199-200, 202, 209 Poor Lombards, 87 Piacenza, 8, 10, 11, 13, 15, 23, 25, 31, 169, Pope-Hennessy, John, 260 283, 284, 287, 294, 296; citizenship, 67; popes, 218, 220, 222, 223, 229, 293, 310; as civil war, 40, 41; commune, 18, 48, 67; art patrons, 241, 243-4, 303, 304; nepo-

despotism, 62; as duchy and fief of tism, 293-4, 297, 306. See also papacy

Church, 286, 294; guilds, 38, 60; popular popolani (commoners), 50, 57-8, 63, 64, 69,

armed society, 41, §2; subject to Milan, 184, 250

then Venice, 141, 143; Sforza’s sack of, popolino (lower class), 15

144 popolo (the “people”), 40, 42, 45-6, 48, 54,

Pico della Mirandola, 216-17 56, 59-61, 83, 186; armed companies, 4o-

Piccolomini family (Siena), 135, 292, 293 1, 51-3, §4, 77, 78; Corporatism, 39-40, Piedmont, 11, 26, 100, 101, 132, 286, 287, 51~3, 68; cultural legacy, 58-9, 63-6, 250,

295; land holdings, 100, 166 333; divisions within, 59-61, 68-70; law-

Pietro di Leone, 9 and-order view of decline of, 62-3, 70-1; Pigna, G. B., 316-17 and merchants, 51, 59-60, 63, 67-8; mid-

Pinturicchio, Bernardino, 258, 262, 265, 269 die-class constituency, 47, 59, 61, 66-9; Pisa, 10, 11, 12, 14, 15, 25, 82, 114, 131, 292, nobles as allies and leaders, 45, 46, 70; vs. 296; absence of guilds and popular armed nobility, 40-1, 45-6, 47-9, 53, 56-8, 68-9,

groups, 40, 41, 60; art, 255; battle of 138, 176, 184; organization of, 51~5, 56-8, Meloria, 96, 101; class conflict, 97; com- 68; and republicanism, 132-3; rise to mune, 18, 20, 21, 23, 31, 37, 38, 96; fiscal power, 46-51, 55, 184; in signorial rule, affairs, 176, 177; Florence, ruled by, 131, 94-5, 97, 138; and serfdom, 57, 59, 60, 69; 170, 185, 252, 280, 283, 290; vs. Genoa, textile workers as heirs to, 133; weakness 22, 96; Lucca, rule over, 108; Milan, in seaports, 40, 41, 60, 131, 132

ruled by, 109-10; nobility, 28, 30, 31, 36, popular communes, 47-55, 140, 184; achieve38, 40, 101, 138; popolo, 96; population, ments, 58-9, 62-6; deficiencies, 61, 62, 23, 168; savi, 105, 108; signorial rule, 96, 66-71; elections, 48, 154; government,

97, 104-10 passim, 137 54-5, 63, 64 (see also popolo), historical

Pisanello (Antonio Pisano), 247, 248, 258, assessments, 62-3; taxation, 64, 82, 175-6;

263 violence, susceptible to, 62-3, 70-1

Pistoia, 31, 185; commune, 18, 29, 47, 48 popular representation, 47-9, §5, 120

Pius II, Pope, 195, 236, 272, 293 popular societies, 39-41, 48, 51-3, 54, 60,

Pius III, Pope, 281 66-7, 68, 77, 78, 113

plague, 139, 166, 168, 178 population: as factor in republicanism, 137,

Platina (Bartolomeo Sacchi), 213 139; figures, 23, 137, 139, 334; growth, 9,

366

Index 30, 34, 162, 168, 332; stasis and decline, Ricasoli family (Florence), 24, 61, 165

168-9, 295 Ricco, Alberto, 98

populus liber, concept of, 64 Ricord: (Guicciardin1), 300, 312, 315

Porcari, Stefano, 200, 211 Ridolfi, Lorenzo, 254

portraiture, 229-30, 251-4, 258, 263, 265, Ridolfi family (Florence), 156, 292

268, 269-70 Rimini, 101, 220, 222, 223, 265, 280

ports, 10, 11, 15, 20, 72; guilds in, 60, 77-8; Rinuccini, Alamanno, 207 as republics, 131-2; weakness of popular Rinuccini, Cino, 193

movements in, 40, 41, 60, 131, 132 Riva, Bonvesin de la, 63, 202

pouches, office, 154-5 Rivoltella, Treaty of, 144

Prato, 10, 23, 163, 170, 263 Robert, king of Naples, 98

Prince, The (Machiavelli), 125, 299, 311, Roberti, Ercole de’, 247, 265

315, 328 Romagna, 11, 132, 289-90, 292, 296; under

princely courts, 218-21, 226-40; arts at, Borgia, 280, 281, 290; in Italian Wars,

229-30, 237, 248, 253, 256, 303; definitions, 281-2, 283, 285, 288, 294, 295; signories,

221; entertainment 238-9; finances, 222- 101, 102, 106, 223, 224 6, 228; humanism at, 202, 253; listed, 219- | Romagnano, battle of, 284

20; literature at, 227, 231-2, 235, 237, Roman Catholic Church, see Church, the 323-31; vs. oligarchies, 219-20, 221; pa- Romano, Ezzelino da, 62, 95, 96, 101, 1 14,

lazzt, villas, fortresses, 221-2, 236-7, 256, 119

272-4; patronage, 214, 218-19, 241-2, 247- Romano, Giulio, 218, 232, 245, 248, 262

8, 302-3; pomp and pageantry, 225, 232- Romano, Immanuel, 79 4, 236; protocol and ritual, 220, 234-6; Romano, Ruggiero, 337 self-imagery, 229-31, 234, 236, 237, 238 Rome, classical, 113, 141, 197, 198; influence princes, 221-2, 227-9; benign, 71, 312, 317, in humanism and art, 191, 195, 196-7, 336; order of rank, 220; purchase of titles 209-10, 253-4, 259, 266, 267, 272; law, 10, and legitimacy, 225, 240. See also signori 25, 203, 209, 332

Protestant Reformation, 297, 308-9 Rome, of Renaissance, 8, 288, 292, 295, 296,

Ptolemy of Lucca, 64, 126 304, 310; art collections, 237, 263, 303;

Pucci family (Florence), 156, 292 buildings, 236, 334; commune, 18; courtly

Pulci, Luigi, 335 literature, 323, 329; “humanist” conspir“putting out” system, 163, 168, 173 acy at, 200; language debate, 318, 319; oligarchy, 215; papal court, 219, 224;

Quercia, Jacopo della, 245, 247, 248, 255, population, 334; princely courts, 219, 220,

261 238; Sack of, 285, 295, 310. See also uintilian, 193, 1 papacy, e 73> 194 Roncaglia, diet ofpopes (1158), 25 Raphael (Sanzio), 243-8 passim, 255, 258, Ronciere, C. M. de la, 181

262, 263, 273, 274, 299, 323 Roover, Florence Elder de, 174

Raspanti faction (Perugia), 133-4, 153 Rosello, L. P., 316-17

Ravenna, 282, 285; battle of (1512), 282 Rossi, Niccolo de , 82-3, 84, 85 realism, 203, 249, 258, 260, 262-3, 270-1, Rossi, Roberto de’, 207

299-301, 311, 316, 323, 324 Rucellai, Bernardo, 207 Reggio, 113, 225, 285, 294 Rucellai family (Florence), 156, 181, 272

regalian rights, 13, 25, 175 Rucellai, Palla, 254

religion, 297, 299, 304-10; doctrine, 87; Rustico di Filippo, 74

fanaticism, 335; feeling, 86-93, 296, 305; . practice, 307 Sacchetti, Franco, 165 .

religious art, 86, 242, 249-50, 259, 266, 334 Sadoleto, Giacomo, Cardinal, 306

Renaissance, stages of, 332-3 St. Ambrose, 39, 140, 142, 193

republicanism, 62, 70-1, 94, 130-61, 196, St. Augustine, 113, 123, 124, 128, 193 200, 219, 314, 335-6; Ambrosian republic, Salerno, 8, 289 _ 139; 140-8, 200, aristocratic, 71, 132, 139- Salutati, Coluccio, 193, 199, 206, 208, 253 40, 141; artistic legacy, 251-4; bour- Saluzzo, marquisate of, 219, 279, 287 geoisie and, 131, 132, 1375 138, 143; en- Salvano, Provenzan, 119 vironment for, 68, 131-3, 137-9; nobility Salvemini, G., 45 and, 138-9; popolo and, 132-3; prole- Salviati family (Florence), 156, 292 tarian revolts, 133-7. See also oligarchy, Sangallo, Giuliano da, 274

republican Sani di Pietro, 260

rhetoric, 116, 120-1, 194-5, 199-201, 202-3, Sannazaro, Jacopo, 310, 318

204, 206, 336 Sanseverino family (Milan), 145, 279

Riario, Girolamo, 293 Sardinia, 96, 280, 281, 284, 287

Riario, Pietro, Cardinal, 293 Sarpi, Paolo, 334, 337, 344 Riario-Sansoni, Raphael, Cardinal, 293 Sassetta, 275

367

Index

Sasso, Panfilo, 230 102, 105-6, 218, 220; personality impact,

Savelli family, 289, 292 108-9; powers of, 104-9. See also princely Saviozzo of Sienna, 71 signorial government, 63, 64, 70-1, 82, 102-

savi: of Pisa, 105, 108; of Venice, 156 _ courts, princes

Savonarola, 279, 290, 305 10, 130, 132, 138-9, 147, 185, 200; advisory Savoy, duchy of, 96, 141, 167, 219, 224, 278, councils, 105, 106-7; legislative councils, 279, 287; in Italian Wars, 282, 286, 295, 103-5, 107; legitimization of authority,

206 102-3, 106, 108; origins, gq-101, 138; scholasticism, 209 _ potism schools 64. See also universities silk industry, 169, 173-4, 187, 188, 337

Scarsi, Ser Giuliano degli, 264 “veiled signory,” 158, 278. See also des-

Scrovegno, Enrico, 243 Silvester III, antipope, 8

“scrutiny,” practice of, 151, 153, 154, 155 simony, 8, 15, 16-17. See also Church sculpture, 86, 242, 243, 247, 250-9 passim, Sixtus IV, Pope, 226, 236, 263, 269, 278, 293-

275; princely images, 229-30 4, 297, 310 Segarelli, Gherardo, 87 14-15; 13th century, 45, 60-1; consular

secularization, 257, 333 social classes, 10, 122, 147; 11th century,

serfdom, 9, 14, 15, 162-3, 167; popolo and, commune, 28, 29, 30, 38, 40-1; hardening,

57, 59, 60, 69 14th to 15th century, 139, 256; town-

Sforza, Ascanio, Cardinal, 220, 224, 231, country relationships, 163-7. See also

292, 305 bourgeoisie; class divisions; lower classes; Sforza, Caterina, 225, 293 classes Sforza, Bianca Maria, 225, 230, 232, 291 merchants; middle class, nobility; upper

Sforza, Cesare, 306 social mobility, 14, 29, 30, 45-6, 168, 184, Sforza, Francesco, 140, 141, 142, 143, 144-6, ended, 139, 147, 158, 184, 256, artists, 148, 223, 230, 239, 243, 272 246; humanist professionals, 206

Sforza, Francesco II, 285 societies, 39-40, 113. See also consorterie, Sforza, Galeazzo Maria, 227, 293 popular societies; tower societies Sforza, Gian Galeazzo, 230 Soderini family (Florence), 156, 292

Sforza, Ludovico, 222, 223, 224, 237-8, 239, Spain, 240, 288, 333, 335-6; and Italian 243, 303, 304-5, 306, 315; exile, 280, 318; Wars, 218, 219, 277, 278, 280-5, 287, 292,

ostentation, 225-6, 227, 230, 232, 2333 29§ ;

power politics, 229, 263, 278-9, 280, 288; Spinola family (Genoa), 28, 43, 86, 89, 101 purchase of duchy, 234, 240, 278-9, 291 Stampa family (Milan), 145, 146

291, 292 323 ;

Sforza, Maximilian, 283, 291 Stanga family (Cremona), 236, 272

Sforza family, 220, 222, 223, 226-7, 232, 239, stilnovo poets, 30, 65-6, 74, 75, 80, 82, 203,

shipbuilding (Venice), 171, 187-8 Straparola, Giovan Francesco, 300 shipping, 163, 337. See also trade Strozzi, Ercole, 229 __

Sicardo (papal legate), 47 Strozzi, Palla di Nofri, 167, 191, 202, 207,

Sicily, 8, 25, 43, 280, 281, 284, 287 263 |

Siena, 12, 14, 23, 31, 36, 80, 113, 125, 278, Strozzi family, 156, 167, 181, 236 292; art, 244, 245, 260-1, 262; buildings, Swiss, the, in Italian Wars, 282, 283 256, 272; citizenship and office-holding, Symonds, John Addington, 102 148, 150-1; civil wars, 31, 32, 40, 41, 56;

commune, 18, 19-20, 21, 23, 24, 28, 29, 38, Tansillo, Luigi, 335

71; consular government, 28, 38; crafts- Taranto, fall of (1502), 281 men’s revolt, 59, 133-9 passim; fiscal Tasso, Bernardo, 323, 326 affairs, 49, 176, 177, 178, 181; vs. Florence, Tasso, Torquato, 232, 303-4, 334, 344 22, 137, 287, 335; government of Ten, taxes, 64, 82, 110, 136, 143-4, 147, 163, 167,

135; guilds, 59, 68; imperial siege of 175-6, 179-84, 185, 189, 222-3, 289, 295, (1554-55), 287, 295; nobility and mer- 337; direct, 175-83 passim, 223; VS. chants, 60-1, 135, 138, 169; oligarchy of “forced loan,” 64, 176, 177-8, 179, 182; the Nine, 71, 113, 134, 135, 152-3, 156; indirect, 64, 175, 176, 181-3, 187, 222-3; popular armed companies, 41, 52, 533 inequities, 49-50, 180-4; power to tax, 13popular commune, 48, 55, 56, 59-60, 68, 14, 25, 27, 175

70; population, 34, 137, 168, 295; republic, tax farming, 64, 82, 170, 176-7, 223 71, 94, 1OL, 130, 132, 133, 134-5, 137, 138, Tebaldi, Antonio, 300

139, 285, 335; signorial rule, 94; social Tedaldi, Pieraccio, 80-1, 82, 83 mobility ended, 139; textile industry, 188 Telesio, Bernardino, 335 Signorelli, Luca, 244, 245, 246, 247, 255,265, | tenant farmers, 162-3, 164-5, 167

274, 276 Tesoretto, I] (Latini), 72-3, 115-16, 123

signori (despots), 63, 70-1, 223, 238; heredi- | Tettocio, Manegoldo di, 43

tary, 94, 130, 240; imperial or papal titles, —_ textile industry, 163, 168, 169, 188, 337

368

Index textile workers, 173, 186, 187, 189; revolts Vaga, Perin del, 262

of, 133-7, 139 Valdes, Juan de, 309

Tiepolo, Baiamonte, 94, 101 Valdesiani, 309, 310

Tietze-Conrat, E., 268 Valeriano, Piero, 321

Tintoretto (Jacopo Robusti), 245, 246 Valla, Lorenzo, 193, 195, 197-8, £99, 200,

Titian, 228, 245, 246, 255, 261 206, 208, 211; on Index, 335

Tolomei, Claudio, 320 Valori, Barrolommeo, 254

Tolomei family (Siena), 36, 85, 135 Varchi, Benedetto, 322, 327-8

Tornabuoni, Giovanni, 242 Vasari, Giorgio, 245, 246, 254 Torriani, see Della Torre family Vasoli, C., 200

Tortona, 11, 22, 141, 144; commune, 24 vavasors (valvassori), 11, 14, 17-18, 19

Toschi, Gioseffo, 57 Vegio, Maffeo, 192, 193, 194, 201, 207 towers, 32-3, 35-6, 65, 257 Velate, Guido da, Archbishop, 16-17

tower societies, 35-7 vendetta, practice of, 32

trade, 9-10, 14, 20, 38, 51, 60-1, 82, 131, 278, Vendramin, Andrea, 173 332, 337; aristocrats’ disdain for, 172, 193, Veneto, 166-7, 169, 185, 282-3, 292, 337 302; boys’ introduction to, 172, 193; 15th- | Veneziano, Domenico, 243, 248, 258, 262,

century slowdown, 169-75, 183; rivalry, 264-5

22. See also guilds Venice, II, 15, 25-6, 133, 240, 290, 298; art,

Trent, 307; Council of (1563), 335 237, 243, 244, 245, 253, 260, 261, 262, 263,

Treviso, 11, §6, 94, 101, 132, 172, 282; sig- 268, 270-1, 332; citizenship and officeNOFY, 95, 98-9, 101, 103, 104, 105 holding, 148, 150, 153, 158-9, 174, 180, 313;

Trinkaus, Charles, 194, 216 civil discord, 101, 132, 138; Collegio, 159,

Trissino, Gian Giorgio, 321, 323 160; Constitution, 312-14; Council of Ten, Trivulzio, Catelano, 306, 307 150, 156, 160; doge, 156, 159, 221, 3133

Trivulzio, Gian Giacomo, 291 dowry limits, 173; economic conditions, Trivulzio family (Milan), 141, 146, 220, 169, 170-3, 295, 337; elections, 151-2, 153,

236, 291, 292, 307 158-9, 160; “empire” of, 163, 170~1, 185,

Tura, Cosimo, 190, 244, 247, 248, 265, 269 209-10, 278, 279, 281, 291-2; fiscal affairs, Tuscany, 11-12, 13, 19, 20, 25, 84, 102, 162, 163, 176-83 passim, foreign po:.cy, 292,

187, 292, 337; art, 285, 287; in Italian 294-5; vs. Genoa, 88-9, 171, 178, 179; Wars, 285, 287, 294, 295; land holdings, Genoa, compared with, 131-2, Great 162, 166, 167; league against Henry IV, Council, 148, 153, 158-9, 160, 243, 270, 26; League of Cities, 96, 100; Medicean 313; guilds, 60, 77, 186; historical writing, grand duchy of, 335-6; popular move- 313, 317, 334, 336-7; humanists, 191, 197, ment, 56, 62, 70, 132; vernacular, 318, 202, 207-8, 209-10, 261, 332; in Italian

319-22; wars, 97 Wars, 279-86, 287, 291-2; land owner-

ship, 34-5, 163~4, 167; vs. Milan, 144, 146,

Ubaldini, Ottaviano degli, Cardinal, 112 178, 278; vs. Naples, 278; oligarchy, 148, Uberti family (Florence), 24, 36, 54, 61 156, 158-61, 185, 215, 219, 221, 229, 335Uccello, Paolo, 251, 258, 259, 264-5, 274-5 6; Palazzi, 256-7, 334; patriciate, 77-8, 101, Umbria, 11, 12, 13, 265, 289, 294; popular 131, 132 138, 147, 158-9, 167, 169, 171-3,

movement, 62, 132 212, 229, 261, 270, 291-2, 313, 3175 3345

Umiliati, 87 plebeians, 313-14; as a plutocracy, 159;

universities, 202-3, 204, 205 political stability, 159-6o, 270, 291; popu-

upper classes: as art patrons, 241-2, 243, lation, 168, 169, 170, 171, 177, 3343 Quar246, 250, 253, 254-5, 258-9; in consular antia, 159; republic, 130, 131, 132, 138, commune, 28-9, 30-3, 41; first and sec- 148, 157, 158-61, 278, 291-2, 312-14, 317, ond tiers of, 156, 157, 158; and human- 335-6; scuole grandi, 189, 270, senate, 158, ism, 191-2, 205, 207, 209-14; identity 159-60, 313; shipbuilding, 171, 187-8, sotransformation, 15th century, 256-9, 260, cial mobility ended, 139, 147, 158; subject 262-3, 269-70, 273; Italian Wars’ effect on, cities, rule over, 143, 166-7, 172, 185; 299, 302, 311, 322, 326; in political careers, Tiepolo-Quirini conspiracy (1310), 94, 157-60, 174-5; and Protestantism, 310. 101, 138; trade, 131, 170-2; Treaty of

, 132

See also class divisions; nobility Rivoltella, 144; vs. Turks, 171, 261, 270, urbanization, 9-12, 13, 23, 139, 163 279, 280-1, 292, wages, 177, 187-8, War

Urbino, 219-26 passim, 234, 237, 265, 285, of Ferrara (1482-84), 278, 279; weakness 296, 303; architecture, 272; courtly liter- of popular movement in, 40, 41, 60, 131,

O20) 329; language debate, 318, Vercelli, 8, 11, 30; despotism, 62 uUSUrY, 49, §1, 82, 162, 163, 166, 175, 310 Vergerio, Pier Paolo, 192, 194 utopianism, 301, 311, 313, 316, 322, 325, 326, | Werme family (Milan), 145, 256

328 Verona, 10, 11, 25, 132, 172, 263, 295; Com-

Uzzano, Niccolo da, 254 mune, 18, 29, 38, 48, 68, 70, 95; guilds, 369

Index

Verona (cont'd) Visconti, Giovanni Maria, 106, 109

60, 95; vs. Padua, 98; population, 168-9; Visconti, Matteo, 95, 103 signorial rule, 62, 95, 97, 98, 101-6 passim, Visconti, Nino, 96 109, 138; upper classes, 28, 36, 38, 39, 70 Visconti, Ottone, Archbishop, 51, 95, 96

Verona, Giacomo da, 114 Visconti family (Milan), 41, 71, 85, 95, 96, Veronese, Paolo Caliari, 334 101-8 passim, 142-3, 145, 230, 236, 251-2,

Verri, Pietro, 142 277, 279 Verrocchio, Andrea del, 244, 262 Visconti family (Pisa), 28, 41, 96 Vettori, Francisco, 312 viscounts, 12, 19-20, 21, 30, 40

vicariates, 106, 107, 108, 142. See also papal Vitruvius, De architectura, 272, 275

vicariates Vittorino da Feltre, 195, 201, 202, 206

Vicenza, 11, 25, 29, 101, 172, 282; anti- Vivarini family (painters), 166, 270 despotism treaty, 94; despotism, 62; Volterra, 12, 16, 29, 185 heretics, 87; podestaral government, 44, 56; popular commune, 47, 56; population, wages, 173, 177, 186-8, 189-90

34, 168 Waldensians, 87

vicinanza (neighborhood), 36, 52, 53 Walter of Brienne, 96

Vigevano, 144, 223, 295 warfare, 178, 290; as princely business, 222, vilan (parvenu), 66, 83-5, 90 290, 302; professionalization of, 108. See

Villani, Giovanni, 65 also civil war; Italian Wars Vimercate, Gaspare da, 146 White, John, 250

Vimercati family (Milan), 28, 256 Winrico, bishop of Piacenza, 13

Vinci, Leonardo da, 166, 230 236, 243-8 women, 89-90; chastity, 86, 114, 239

passim, 265, 272-3, 276, 303 wool industry, 134, 169, 184, 186-7, 337 Virgil, 193, 194, 204, 205, 320 workers, 186-90; grievances of, 186-7; re-

Visconti, Azzone, 103, 106 volts of late 1g4th century, 59, 133-7, 139,

Visconti, Bernabo, 104, 106 186-7 Visconti, Filippo Maria, 140, 141, 142, 143

Visconti, Gaspare, 232 Ziani family (Venice), 34-5

Visconti, Giangaleazzo, 106, 109-10, 182 Zonchio, battle of (1490), 270

379