The Italian Renaissance has no shortage of flamboyant females. Think of Lucrezia Borgia, traduced by slander and gossip, and of Isabella d'Este, greedy for art. Vittoria Colonna's name has always been there, hovering in the wings, but with Ramie Targoff's vibrant, timely study, Renaissance Woman, she comes into the spotlight. Colonna's life, at first glance, is unpromising for a modern biographer…But in Targoff's hands the bits of the puzzle fit together beautifully…Targoff proves herself as good a popular historian as she is a literary critic. These were troubled times in Italy, filled with political and religious upheaval, and she is a terrific guide, navigating us smoothly through complexity, aided and enhanced by the starry cast of characters in Colonna's orbit…[This is] the study of a passionate, complex woman with formidable poetic talents: someone who, while embedded in her own age, emerges as a thinker and seeker in tune with a modern audience. Vittoria Colonna has always deserved to be better known. Ramie Targoff's fine book will surely make that happen.
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Ramie Targoff's Renaissance Woman tells of the most remarkable woman of the Italian Renaissance: Vittoria Colonna, Marchesa of Pescara.
Vittoria has long been celebrated by scholars of Michelangelo as the artist's best friend—the two of them exchanged beautiful letters, poems, and works of art that bear witness to their intimacy—but she also had close ties to Charles V, Pope Clement VII and Pope Paul III, Pietro Bembo, Baldassare Castiglione, Pietro Aretino, Queen Marguerite de Navarre, Reginald Pole, and Isabella d'Este, among others.
Vittoria was the scion of an immensely powerful family in Rome during that city's most explosively creative era. Art and literature flourished, but political and religious life were under terrific strain. Personally involved with nearly every major development of this period—through both her marriage and her own talents—Vittoria was not only a critical political actor and negotiator but also the first woman to publish a book of poems in Italy, an event that launched a revolution for Italian women's writing.
Vittoria was, in short, at the very heart of what we celebrate when we think about sixteenth-century Italy; through her story the Renaissance comes to life anew.
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Targoff (Common Prayer), professor of English and cochair of Italian studies at Brandeis University, paints Vittoria Colonna (1492–1547) as an embodiment of the Italian Renaissance in this enjoyable narrative, noting Colonna’s intense religiosity and role as the first published female Italian poet. Humble despite her family’s high stature, Colonna was shocked when her literary work was published. But her romantic paeans to her late husband and religious sonnets encouraged other women to publish and inspired established male poets to ask for her elegant literary critiques of their work. Targoff provides several helpful translations of Colonna’s poems, accompanied by clear explications of her struggles with mourning and spirituality, which her letters also documented. Like her poetry, Colonna’s life centered on both the secular and the sacred; her friendship with Michelangelo and occasional political involvement contrasted with her frequent convent stays. Colonna also became part of the failed Catholic reformation movement; as a result, the Vatican compiled Inquisition documents listing her “heretical beliefs.” The unpublished documents and other contemporary sources Targoff presents, along with lines from the sonnets, illuminate Colonna’s reformist tendencies. Targoff’s well-researched, thoughtful biography reveals Colonna as a complex woman who turned grief and a spiritual quest into a renowned literary reputation. Illus. Agent: Jill Kneerim, Kneerim & Williams. (Feb.)
"Vittoria Colonna’s name has always been there, hovering in the wings, but with Ramie Targoff’s vibrant, timely study, Renaissance Woman, she comes into the spotlight...[In] Targoff’s hands the bits of [Colonna's] puzzle fit together beautifully. Here is a woman capable of deep, almost obsessional feeling, with an equal capacity to put those feelings into poetry...Vittoria Colonna has always deserved to be better known. Ramie Targoff’s fine book will surely make that happen." —Sarah Dunant, New York Times Book Review
"Ms. Targoff is adept at keeping the reader informed of the complex geopolitical machinations taking place in Colonna’s life, among them the conflict between Clement VII and Charles V, which pits her family’s loyalties against her husband’s, and the schism in the church wrought by Lutheranism. All of this is introduced not as dry context but as high drama. Working closely with Colonna’s letters and poems, Ms. Targoff gives her the vividness of a fictional protagonist."
—Cammy Brothers, The Wall Street Journal
"Targoff (Common Prayer), professor of English and cochair of Italian studies at Brandeis University, paints Vittoria Colonna (1492–1547) as an embodiment of the Italian Renaissance in this enjoyable narrative, noting Colonna’s intense religiosity and role as the first published female Italian poet . . . Targoff provides several helpful translations of Colonna’s poems, accompanied by clear explications of her struggles with mourning and spirituality, which her letters also documented . . . Targoff’s well-researched, thoughtful biography reveals Colonna as a complex woman who turned grief and a spiritual quest into a renowned literary reputation." —Publisher's Weekly
"Insightful . . . Targoff captures the Renaissance's 'simultaneous magic and strangeness' in a single woman." —Kirkus
“Targoff, the author of books on John Donne, the language of devotion, and the theme of Eros and the afterlife in Renaissance English, fills a profound gap, providing the first modern biography of this remarkable person . . . Targoff’s efforts are both spritely and scholarly in this book to be enjoyed by any literate reader.” —Library Journal
“Targoff' biography shows how Colonna’s commitment to the Catholic Church intersected with her participation in cultural and political transformation.” —Booklist
“Ramie Targoff has given us an enthralling portrait of one of the most talented women of Renaissance times: the “divine” Vittoria Colonna, as she was called by her friend Michelangelo. Celebrated for her love sonnets and religious poetry, the widowed Colonna crafted a life between nunneries and the courts of her fellow aristocrats, between Protestant reformers and Catholic believers, all while fascinating some of Europe’s great figures with her presence. Ramie Targoff recreates these worlds with enormous skill and leaves us delighted with her quest.” —Natalie Zemon Davis, author of Trickster Travels: A Sixteenth-Century Muslim Between Worlds
“I was engrossed, inspired, and moved by the story of this groundbreaking, contradictory, and overlooked literary figure. Ramie Targoff brings Vittoria Colonna to life with a novelist’s flair for plot, detail, and character. Her passion for her subject is contagious, and her analysis of Renaissance culture is both scrupulous and empathetic, at once erudite and richly dramatic.” —Jhumpa Lahiri, author of In Other Words
“‘May the holy nails now be my quills,’ wrote Vittoria Colonna, Marchesa di Pescara, in one of her shattering sonnets, a profession of her dedication to the suffering of Christ through the writing of poetry. ‘And may his precious blood be my ink.’ Ramie Targoff’s learned and powerful account of the lavishly wealthy sixteenth-century Italian noblewoman who wanted to be a nun as much as she wanted to write unlocks this much-overlooked Renaissance woman from the prison of the poet’s own making—the prison of her grief—and from another prison, too: the prison of the archives, from which Renaissance Woman has at last released her.” —Jill Lepore, author of The Secret History of Wonder Woman
“One of the most glamorous women of the Renaissance, Vittoria Colonna, well-born and gifted, friend of Michelangelo, rich in every sense, has finally received the attention she deserves. No wonder it has taken so long: Vittoria’s life and career require a biographer with research skills, scholarly dedication, linguistic brilliance, wide-ranging knowledge, and writing talent—combined with a passionate interest in women’s lives—that Ramie Targoff may be alone in possessing. Many will be grateful to her for giving us so extraordinary and inspiring a heroine.” —Phyllis Rose, author of Parallel Lives
"Narrator Justine Eyre's fluid and flavorful pronunciation of Italian words and expressions transports listeners deeper into Victoria's privileged world." -AudioFile
The granddaughter of Federico da Montefeltro (the famous broken-nosed condottiero portrayed in profile by Piero della Francesca), Vittoria Colonna, Marchesa of Pescara was by family, friendship, or patronage affiliated with almost every significant figure of the Renaissance. In addition to popes and emperors, she included in her circle the poet and humanist Pietro Bembo, authors Pietro Aretino and Baldassare Castiglione, who dedicated Il Cortegiano to her, and Queen Marguerite of Navarre. Most celebrated was her profound but platonic relationship with Michelangelo. Colonna was a fine poet in her own right and the first woman in Italy to publish her own Rime. She also presented Michelangelo with a manuscript of her spiritual sonnets. Deeply devout throughout her life, she supported reformers within the Catholic Church, eventually evolving views not inconsistent with Lutheranism. Targoff (English & Italian studies, Brandeis Univ.), the author of books on John Donne, the language of devotion, and the theme of Eros and the afterlife in Renaissance English, fills a profound gap, providing the first modern biography of this remarkable person. VERDICT Targoff's efforts are both spritely and scholarly in this book to be enjoyed by any literate reader.—Thomas L. Cooksey, formerly with Armstrong Atlantic State Univ., Savannah
"The Renaissance comes to life anew" in this insightful biography of a remarkable Italian woman."It is impossible to imagine the Renaissance without her." Targoff's (English, Italian Studies, Humanities/Brandeis Univ.; Posthumous Love: Eros and the Afterlife in Renaissance England, 2014, etc.) claim regarding the importance of Vittoria Colonna, Marchesa of Pescara (1490-1547), is a lofty one, but she makes a strong case for it in this thorough and painstakingly researched academic biography. Due to the paucity of extant primary sources about and by Vittoria, Targoff draws upon the complex history of the times and some considered speculation to tell her subject's compelling story. The author has done yeoman's work scouring Italian libraries, archives, and monasteries to locate, identify, and personally translate obscure Latin and Italian manuscripts. The Roman Colonna family was one of the most powerful in Italy, and Vittoria was well-educated and devout. She and her future husband, Ferrante, from Naples, were just children when their marriage was arranged around 1495; they took their vows in 1509. When her husband, a soldier fighting for Charles V, was killed in battle, she was "thirty-five years old, a widow, and childless." Targoff describes her as a solitary woman. She wanted to enter a convent, but Pope Clement said no. Disappointed, she returned to the family castle on an island where she "transformed her sorrows into verse." Her more than 130 sonnets about her grief and faith, Targoff argues, "broke entirely new ground for women's poetry." When a pirated edition of her poems was published in 1538, she became the first Italian woman to publish a book of poetry and the "most celebrated religious poet of the era." She later became friends with the influential religious reformer Reginald Pole and Michelangelo, "my most singular friend."Targoff captures the Renaissance's "simultaneous magic and strangeness" in a single woman.
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THE VIEW FROM THE CLIFF
IN NOVEMBER 1525, a messenger from Milan bearing important news crossed the Bay of Naples. He was heading for a castle on the island of Ischia occupied by members of the d'Avalos family, one of the leading households in the kingdom of Naples, which was ruled at the time by the Spanish kings of Aragon. Ferdinand II, whose reign lasted only a year, before his death in 1496, had given the castle to Iñigo II d'Avalos, Marquis of Vasto, in gratitude for his distinguished military service in the wars that Naples waged against the French. Following Iñigo's death in 1503, his sister Costanza d'Avalos had become governor of the island. It was unusual for a woman to be in such an official position of power — she was even responsible for several important naval victories fought off of the island's coast — but Costanza was an unusual woman.
As the boat approached Ischia, the messenger would have glimpsed his destination, which still produces awe in visitors today. Perched roughly three hundred feet above the sea on a volcanic rock, the castle seemed completely inaccessible to the world below. The extremity of the location was what had made it so desirable: having a castle high on a rock in the middle of the sea so close to Naples was a significant military advantage, and since the fifth century B.C.E., when the first fortress was built on the site, it had been occupied in turn by Romans, Visigoths, Arabs, Normans, and Swabians before becoming the property of the Spanish kings in the fifteenth century. The rock itself was rough and scorched, which, according to ancient legend, was a result of Zeus's punishment of the giant monster Typhon, who had threatened the gods by hurling rocks at the sky and breathing out fire. Zeus was said to have crushed Typhon by covering him with nothing less than Ischia itself, but the fires raging from the giant continued to burn and left the island sterile.
One does not need to know this myth to see that there was nothing cozy or welcoming about the castle as glimpsed from the sea below. Not only was it treacherously high above the water, but it also sat on its own islet with no obvious connection to the main island, so that the only visible access to the fortress was a terrifying set of broken stairs carved into the side of the cliffs. Scaling a volcanic rock was not normally part of a messenger's mission, but judging from the haste with which he had been dispatched in Milan, the news he was bringing was clearly urgent. What our messenger would not initially have seen was the stone bridge on the western side of the castle that the first Spanish rulers had built in the mid-fifteenth century to connect the islet to the island; he also would not have seen the massive tunnel they had dug out from the rock that leads to the castle gates. The tunnel was both a comfortable means of entry for welcome guests and a form of defense against those who were not: carved into the ceiling along the way were large openings resembling skylights that were designed to allow boiling tar to be poured over intruders' heads.
Luckily, the messenger from Milan was a welcome guest: he was carrying news, most likely in the form of a letter, to Vittoria Colonna, Marchesa of Pescara. Vittoria was living at the castle with Costanza while her husband, Costanza's nephew Ferrante I d'Avalos, was fighting against the French on behalf of the Holy Roman Emperor, Charles V, who was also, as Charles I, the king of Spain (see color plate 1). Vittoria had married into the aristocratic Spanish clan, but was herself a Roman noblewoman. Her family's lands in the Castelli Romani were officially part of the Papal States, which spanned out from Rome through Lazio, the Marches, Umbria, and into EmiliaRomagna, although there was nothing that resembled a centralized government in the region. The heads of noble Roman families, known in Italian as baroni, governed their own subjects, raised their own troops, tried their own criminals, and controlled their borders and roads. In the early sixteenth century, these feudal lords had very few obligations to the pope: they did not regularly serve in the papal armies — indeed, they were often on the opposing side in battle — and only irregularly paid their taxes. In the words of Ferdinand I, king of Naples from 1458 to 1494, the "Orsini, Colonna, Conti, Caetani, and other barons of the Campagna do not recognize the [rights of the] pope in life or in death." "They are," he concluded, "the true lords of the land."
The Campagna that Ferdinand referred to was the vast and rugged territory surrounding the city of Rome. There is perhaps no other region in Italy that so deeply captures what feudalism looked like: castles and towns sit high on volcanic rocks or steep hills, surrounded by thick walls of stone that seem entirely impregnable from the plain below. The towns were nominally connected by old Roman roads that wove through the valleys, passing along rivers and forests, but travel was perilous. Not only were the roads themselves in poor condition, but they were also famously plagued by robbers and brigands. A papal brief sent in 1516 from Leo X — the Medici pope who ruled from 1513 to 1521 — to Vittoria's mother, Agnese da Montefeltro, reproached her for failing to keep order in the woods outside the Colonna castle in Marino. (The fact that the letter was sent to Agnese means that Vittoria's father, Fabrizio, was almost certainly away waging war.) "We are receiving word every day," Leo wrote, "of many criminal acts taking place there, to such a degree that travelers no longer want to pass through; please command your men to capture the brigands and punish the criminals, and leave the roads open and free." Even without the threat of criminal attacks, the overall feeling of the area is of great isolation, with the man-made fortresses perfectly matching the inhospitality of the natural landscape.
Given the strategic position of the Colonna's lands, it is not surprising that over the centuries they were frequently won and lost, bought and sold, by a range of powerful families. Marino had belonged to nearly all of the powerful baroni in the Campagna — the Conti di Tuscolo, the Frangipane, and the Orsini — before the Colonna purchased it from the Caetani family in 1419. When Oddone Colonna was elected to the papacy in 1417, becoming Martin V, he granted to his family a number of fiefs that were under papal control, vastly expanding the Colonna's base. In 1426 alone, through a combination of gifts and purchases, the Colonna acquired the territory of Nettuno and the castles of Astuna and Rocca di Papa.
Martin V hailed from the Colonna family based in Genazzano, a feudal town twenty-five miles east of Rome, which was built upon a narrow strip of volcanic tufa with deep ravines on either side. Vittoria's branch of the Colonna came from Paliano, five miles to the east of Genazzano and situated in a similarly dramatic setting: the town sits on top of a high peak dominated by the Colonna fortress, with the beautiful Lepini Mountains looming in the distance. The Genazzano and Paliano branches of the family had very close ties, and fought together in the frequent battles that arose against other baronial families, most notably the Colonna's long-term enemies the Orsini, as well as against the popes. A third branch of the family, based four miles to the west of Genazzano in Palestrina, was estranged from the others, and often sided with their enemies.
Around the time of Vittoria's birth in 1490, the Colonna of Paliano and Genazzano became important allies of the kingdom of Naples. Fabrizio, who was one of the leading condottieri, or mercenaries, of his era, formally entered into the service of Ferdinand II in 1495, for which he was compensated with an annual salary of 6,000 ducats, or 6,900 scudi. (As a point of comparison, at the height of his career, Leonardo da Vinci was paid 560 scudi a year by the king of France; Michelangelo was paid somewhere between 300 and 500 scudi per sculpture, and 3,000 ducats for the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel.) Ferdinand also officially invested Fabrizio and his heirs with no fewer than thirty feudal properties in Abruzzo — the mountainous region to the east of the Campagna that stretches to the Adriatic coast — several of which had formerly belonged to the Orsini.
Although the Colonna developed strong ties to the rulers of Naples, they were first and foremost a Roman family. The Palazzo Colonna, located at the foot of the Quirinal Hill just next to the Basilica dei Santi XII Apostoli, was built on a site sacred to the ancient Romans. In the early third century C.E., it was there that the emperor Caracalla chose to erect a magnificent temple to the Greco-Egyptian god Serapis; among the ruins later found on the property was a red granite crocodile from Aswan. Originally built in the 1200s as a fortress, the palace had served over the centuries as both a family home and a refuge. Martin V, who ruled the church from 1417 to 1431, lived in the palace during his papacy — it was his official pontifical seat — and renovated it from its state of decay after years of war and destruction in Rome. The massive structure that we see today reflects a significant expansion of the original building: starting in the seventeenth century, the Colonna began to acquire a number of the neighboring palaces, ultimately incorporating them by the early 1800s into a single, unified complex. Already in Vittoria's time, however, the palace was considered one of the most important residences in Rome.
In early 1525, Vittoria was living far from Rome, on Ischia, when the messenger from Milan arrived on the island and was likely escorted on horseback through the long stone tunnel that led to the castle gates. We have no way of knowing where Vittoria was when his arrival was announced, but it is tempting to imagine her sitting quietly in one of her private rooms. Like most aristocratic women, she would have had the equivalent of a personal apartment inside the castle; the walls were typically hung with beautiful silks and tapestries, the windows draped with heavy satin or velvet, and the spaces filled with an array of wooden chests painted with allegorical scenes, a comfortable daybed for afternoon rest, and several tables, including a scrivania, or writing desk. Vittoria might have been reading one of the many books of Italian poetry in Costanza's library — in addition to being a woman warrior, Costanza was also a great lover of literature and ran a salon on the island for several decades, to which she invited the finest writers in Naples. Or she might have been sitting at her desk, keeping up with her very lively correspondence. Unless she was writing to close relatives, she normally drafted her letters and then passed them on to be copied by a secretary, whose handwriting was far better than hers. This was common practice for men and women of her class, and a personally written letter was a sign of great intimacy.
Given how religious she was, when the messenger arrived with news for Vittoria she may well have been praying in one of the castle's chapels. The tiny church of Santa Maria delle Grazie nearly hangs off a dramatic precipice overlooking the sea, and to reach it, she would have walked through a beautiful orchard of lemon trees, and then down a steep stone staircase. Just below the castle was the much grander Romanesque cathedral where she and Ferrante had been married sixteen years earlier. In one of the churches in the castle complex, there was even an altarpiece that included Vittoria's own portrait along with Costanza's at the feet of the Virgin Mary (see color plate 3). In this beautiful painting, which was commissioned from a Neapolitan artist, possibly Girolamo Ramarino da Salerno, by a member of the d'Avalos family sometime around 1515, Vittoria is dressed in a rich blue and red gown, with locks of her long reddish-brown hair flowing onto her shoulders from an ornate headdress known as a balzo (a wired coif lined with jewels that had a gathered hairnet made from strips of beautiful fabric and lace). She wears a necklace made of enameled gold and pearls with a cross, and holds a small prayer book, possibly an illuminated Book of Hours. The painting, which still hangs today in Ischia at the church of Sant'Antonio di Padova, is the earliest portrait of Vittoria that has survived.
Wherever Vittoria was when the messenger arrived, she would likely have been summoned to meet him in one of the public reception rooms in the castle. The fact that he had come from Milan meant almost certainly that the news was about Ferrante. If Ferrante sent a letter himself, Vittoria would also have recognized his personal seal. In the Renaissance, members of the nobility had their own seals, which they used both as a form of authentication (no one else had their exact design), and to ensure that their letters could not be opened in advance without the recipient knowing. The envelope had not yet been invented — it came into use only in the nineteenth century — so the seal was used to close a letter after an elaborate folding of the sheet of paper into a thick square or rectangle.
Vittoria had been concerned about Ferrante for months, and was anxiously awaiting news that he might be coming home. She had even expressed such a wish in a personal letter to Charles V, in which she suggested that her husband had served in the imperial army long enough. She did this in her characteristically delicate manner, writing that she personally was so dedicated to the emperor's cause as to overcome her desire for Ferrante to return to her: "I hold my name [vittoria, or "victory"] in such estimation that I have used it to conquer my own desire that my husband come home and retire with me."
But Ferrante was in no condition to travel, let alone to wage war. The previous February, he had led Charles to one of the most important victories of his reign at the Battle of Pavia in northern Italy, where the imperial troops had definitively defeated the French, and even taken the French king, Francis I, captive. Ferrante had done this in a daring nocturnal march into the enemy camp, which found the French completely unprepared. But the victory had come at a high cost for Ferrante, leaving him with grave injuries. His condition had only worsened in the months following the battle, and he also developed a severe weakness in his lungs, which ultimately became tuberculosis. Whether the news was delivered by the messenger or in a letter, it was what Vittoria had most dreaded: Ferrante was dying, and wanted her to come to Milan as soon as possible.
It is difficult to convey how complicated a political world Ferrante was living in, and how dangerous a figure he himself was. In the aftermath of the Battle of Pavia, he had earned some formidable enemies, and not simply among the French. Ferrante's problems were, in fact, more strictly Italian. In the sixteenth century, Italy was not a unified country — it became a nation-state only in the 1860s — but was made up of small kingdoms and city-states that were either self-governed or under the control of foreign powers. In the north were the duchies of Milan and Savoy, and the republics of Genoa and Venice; in the middle of the Italian peninsula, the republics of Florence and Siena, and the Papal States. South of Rome, and occupying the whole of the boot, was the kingdom of Naples. In 1519, Naples was absorbed into the Holy Roman Empire when Charles I inherited the imperial title from his Habsburg grandfather, Maximilian I. Among all these political powers on the peninsula, there were no obvious or enduring alliances. Treaties were drawn up between despotic princes and republicans, dukes and popes, based on the exigencies of the situation. The only abiding principle was opportunism.
Following the imperial victory at Pavia and the subsequent flight of the French, Charles seemed poised to extend his power over much of northern Italy. Given how much land Charles already controlled in the southern half of the peninsula, Italy seemed on the verge of becoming a Spanish-Habsburg possession. The urgency of the situation provoked a group of Italian rulers led by Francesco II Sforza, Duke of Milan, to form a league. Sforza was in a particularly difficult position, having been installed in 1521 as ruler of Milan after a six-year period in which his family had lost control of the duchy to the French. The Sforza family was relatively new to Milan, and had only a tenuous hold on its power. Francesco II's father, Ludovico, hailed from a family of prosperous farmers in the Romagna — sforza, or "force," was a nickname given to his grandfather, a very successful mercenary named Muzio Attendolo — and became duke of Milan in 1494 after usurping the position from his brother's widow, Bona of Savoy. Known as "Il Moro" ("the Moor") due to his dark complexion, Ludovico was a ruthless leader who plotted and schemed his way to power by playing the rival states of Venice, Florence, and Naples against one another. Like so many of his fellow Renaissance princes, Ludovico was both a despotic ruler and a great patron of the arts: it was he who commissioned Leonardo to paint Il Cenacolo (known in English as The Last Supper), which he intended as the centerpiece for a magnificent family mausoleum in the monastery of Santa Maria delle Grazie in Milan.
Excerpted from "Renaissance Woman"
Copyright © 2018 Ramie Targoff.
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