Twelve miles from Rome, on an almost isolated knoll of the Alban range of hills, more than thirteen hundred feet above the sea, which glimmers in the distance beyond the Campagna, rises the picturesque, mediæval town of Marino. Many quiet Romans spend the villeggiatura there, to enjoy its pure air and the shady promenades and beautiful views around it; but few foreigners do more than visit, on the way, a classical spot, a deep and wooded glen at the foot of the hill, where the representatives of the Latin tribes used to meet for deliberation on public matters down to the year 340 B.C., and which is noted for the tragic end of Turnus Herdonius, an influential chief of the league, who was treacherously accused, condemned, and drowned, at the request of Tarquin the Proud, in the clear pool of water—called by Livy caput aquæ Ferentinæ—which wells up so innocently from under a moss-covered rock overspread by an ancient, crooked beech-tree at the head of the little valley.
We do not intend to sketch the history of Marino or describe its local monuments, however interesting, but will simply remark that during the middle ages it passed successively from the Counts of Tusculum to the Frangipanis, the Orsinis, and, under Pope Martin V., to the Colonnas, in whose favor it was erected into a dukedom in 1424. The large baronial palace of the sixteenth century which stands in the middle of the town is full of curiosities and ancestral portraits of this powerful family, although the rarer and more interesting ones have long since been removed to the princely headquarters near the Santi Apostoli, in Rome. The stone-work and towers which still surround Marino and add so much to its feudal aspect, were raised in the year 1480, and the ruins of the castle, with its battlements and proud armorial signs upon the walls, are on the most precipitous side of the town, overlooking the noisy little stream of Aqua Ferentina. It was in this castle—which, having been made by the Colonnas their principal stronghold in that part of the Roman States, was then in the pride of all its freshness and strength of portals, merlons, and machicolations—that a daughter was born in the year 1490 to Don Fabrizio Colonna and his wife, the Lady Agnes of Montefeltro. As soon as possible she was held up at a window to be seen by her father’s retainers and saluted with the discharge of artillery, peal of trumpets, and shouts of men-at-arms.
This infant was Vittoria Colonna, who became one of the most celebrated women of the sixteenth century, and who is even remembered in Italy to this day for her learning, her poetry, beauty, conjugal affection, piety, and sorrows; and yet, strange as it may seem, although hardly singular—for illustrious names of the same period have fallen into a like obscurity—no date more precise than that of the year can be assigned to her birth; and certainly one of the benefits derived by biographers from the reforms which followed the Council of Trent is the better keeping of baptismal registers, by means of which—in countries, at least, where the church was not persecuted nor war made on parochial books—sometimes the very hour, often the day of the week, always that of the month, of an individual’s birth may be found.
Vittoria was the eldest, and only female, of six children. Her father was not only a great nobleman of the States of the Church, but the possessor of many Neapolitan fiefs; and soon after Charles VIII. of France, who had attempted the conquest of the kingdom of Naples, began to experience an evil turn of fortune, Don Fabrizio was detached from his service by Ferdinand of Spain, who succeeded in driving the French out of the southern part of Italy. Most of his life was spent in courts and camps, and but little time was passed in his castles, whither he went either to enjoy the chase or when called by domestic concerns, such as this one that gave a daughter to his house. Her mother was a child of Frederic, Duke of Urbino, head of an illustrious family which for three centuries had ranked among the lesser independent princes of Italy. Some of Vittoria’s ancestors of this line had figured in a conspicuous manner in history, especially as patrons of letters, and during a certain period the court of Urbino was the most refined and intellectual of the Italian peninsula. She felt its influence through her accomplished mother; but her father’s family was also remarkable for an hereditary genius and aptitude in every branch of learning; and a long list could be made of men of erudition, and of writers more or less distinguished, belonging to the Colonna lineage, at the head of which would stand Ægidius Romanus, or Giles of Rome, General of the Augustinians, and for his profound knowledge surnamed Doctor fundatissimus, whose work, De Regimine Principum, composed for his pupil, Philip the Fair of France, was the model in its general subject and didactic form, but without the immoral maxims, of Macchiavelli’s treatise, Del Principe.
According to the custom among the great in that age, Vittoria, while a mere child, being only four years of age, was affianced to one not much older than herself. This was Ferdinand Francesco d’Avalos. His noble family, of Catalan origin, had come over to Italy with the Spanish invaders in 1442, and risen to considerable importance; Don Alonzo, son of Inigo, who accompanied Alphonsus I. in his expedition and died at Naples, having been created Marquis of Pescara, a fortified town of the Abruzzi at the mouth of a river that empties itself into the Adriatic. This very honorable betrothal was made at the suggestion of King Ferdinand, who hoped in this way to attach Fabrizio more strongly to himself. Except this affair, hardly anything is known of Vittoria’s early years, nor who were her instructors; but, judging from subsequent events, she must have been surrounded by whatever advantages wealth, social influence, and political position could procure; and the literary ardor which marked the fifteenth century having passed from colleges and universities into the ranks of private life, her education was such as to ensure her the highest mental culture, united with every accomplishment befitting her station. At the age of five she was transferred to the tutelage of her future husband’s family and placed in care of her sister-in-law, the Duchess of Francavila, who was castellan for the king of the fortress and island of Ischia, at the entrance of the Bay of Naples. This important charge could only have been entrusted to a woman of superior talents, and justifies the praises which Vittoria has given in several sonnets to the “magnanimous Costanza,” as she delights to call her. The duchess loved study, and cultivated the society of the learned, being herself well acquainted with Latin, Spanish, and Italian, in which last language she wrote a work on the misfortunes and trials of the world—Degli Infortuni e Travagli del Mondo. It was in the midst of enchanting scenery, of the fame of martial deeds, and of an elegant conversation that Vittoria’s youthful happiness was passed. She grew up beautiful in person, lovely in mind, and adorned with every grace of manners. She was tall and of an easy carriage, the blood in her veins forming over her white skin a delicate cerulean tracery, while her face was set in a mass of auburn hair which has been sung—such a color being rare in Italy—by some of the best writers of her day. Of her personal appearance, those who have mentioned it can never say enough. That her charms were not the poetical exaggerations of devoted admirers we know from several sources, and particularly from the very sober prose of a curious diary[185] kept by a certain Giuliano Casseri who had occasion to see Vittoria at Naples. She was considered by all—except, of course, by her own sex—the handsomest woman of the age:
After a few years passed in this family, Vittoria returned to Marino to prepare for her marriage, which took place at Ischia in 1507, with all the pomp and splendor that the two great families and their numerous friends could command. The list of marriage gifts and the names of the personages who witnessed the matrimonial contract are interesting—apart from the subjects themselves—for the light they throw upon high society in Italy at a period when it easily surpassed, in the means of luxurious living and all the amenities of social intercourse, that of any other country in Europe.
The Avalos family, like that of Colonna and Montefeltro, was famous for its attention to classical literature and its patronage of learned men. Tiraboschi, in his History of Italian Literature, says of this young Marquis of Pescara that he was no less a diligent student himself than a munificent patron of learning in others. Tall, naturally of romantic ardor, he had moved among men who always inspired him with a taste for the profession of arms, and he rose to be one of the greatest captains of his age.
The first three years of their married life were spent very happily either at Ischia or at Naples. Their affection was mutual and tender. They had ratified the choice of their parents, and their marriage was one of those which are said to be made in heaven. In fact, between her betrothal and final engagement, when the brilliant qualities of her mind and the exquisite beauty of her features began to be the talk and admiration of every one, several great offers had been made to her father in hopes of detaching his daughter from Avalos, and among these suitors were the Dukes of Savoy and Braganza. But while a malicious pen has told us that the reason they were not accepted is that one was too old and the other too far away, the gentle maiden herself assures us that she remained firm to the first love from the purest sentiment of devotion:
In 1512, when war broke out with France, the young Marquis of Pescara was summoned to serve his king, and accompanied his wife’s father, who was Grand Constable of Naples, her uncle, the renowned Prospero Colonna, and her five gallant brothers to the scene of action. Vittoria, meanwhile, remained at Ischia; but before many months had passed she had cause of grief far heavier than that of separation—her husband was wounded and a prisoner. It was at the battle of Ravenna (11th of April, 1512), which has been so tersely described by Macaulay as one of those tremendous days in which human folly and wickedness compress the whole devastation of a famine or a plague, that Fabrizio, who commanded the Spanish vanguard, and Pescara, who was master of the horse, surrendered their swords. The latter was carried to Milan and placed in the fortress of Porta Gobbia. When the news was brought to Ischia, Vittoria and Costanza gave way to their grief, but with a dignified moderation becoming their lofty ideals of sacrifice and duty, and without any of that wild emotion so common to the tender sentiment in the sex.
The illustrious prisoner consoled himself during confinement by composing for his wife a Dialogue on Love. His captivity did not last long, and he was liberated after paying a heavy ransom. He then returned to his beloved home, where he was welcomed by all classes as a veritable hero, and a little of the fast-fading glamour of chivalry showed itself among the Italians in the attention which was directed to his scarred face, so much so that one of his fair admirers, the Duchess of Milan, exclaimed that she too would like to be a man, if only to receive a wound across the cheek, and see how it would add to a fine appearance. All this is very ridiculous, but that it had a hold upon certain minds at this age, and may therefore be noted, is shown from many other circumstances of the same kind; for instance, the delight of Francis of Guise in being surnamed Le Balafré, from a severe cut received at the siege of Bologna, in 1545.
When Pescara was again called (in 1513) to join the forces collected in Lombardy against the French, his wife returned to Ischia, where she continued a diligent course of reading. Besides studying the classics, she cultivated Italian poetry, from which her fame, in our day at least, has chiefly arisen, and in her graceful verses displayed a charm and musical rhythm not equalled since the strains of Petrarch’s muse were heard.
Her husband sometimes came to see her, but his visits from the camp could not be frequent, and most of the time she was left alone in the midst of the little court at Ischia, consumed by that species of domestic grief so poignant to a loving heart when the marital union has not been blessed by issue. Vittoria mentions this particular sorrow, this absence of maternal joy, in a very touching sonnet (No. 22). Finally, despairing of children of her own, she prevailed upon her husband in 1515 to adopt as his son and heir his young cousin, the Marquis del Vasto.
In 1521 we find Vittoria at home. The year before she lost her father, whom Italians delight to mention as having lived a life full of grandeur and glory; but more impartial writers dispute the intaminatis fulget honoribus, and assert that his desertion of the losing for the winning party, when he passed over from Charles to Ferdinand, was done without principle, and merely to save his Neapolitan fiefs. He was a great friend of Macchiavelli, and the well-known contempt and hatred of this political fiend for what he was pleased to call the barbarous domination of the foreigner probably influenced him to think that it mattered little whether he served Frenchman or Spaniard, since neither had a right to or deserved his services. It was to him that the subtle Florentine addressed his seven books on the Art of War. His wife, the lovely and pious Agnes, survived him only two years, dying after a pilgrimage to Our Lady of Loretto. One of Vittoria’s most beautiful sonnets is on her mother.
Pescara, being again called to arms, hurried to the north of Italy, and after the battle of Sessia behaved with exquisite courtesy towards the wounded and expiring Bayard. At the battle of Pavia, on Feb. 24, 1525, Pescara was grievously wounded. Although he greatly contributed by his skill and valor to the fortunes of that day, he could not conceal his disappointment at not being more generously rewarded by the emperor, and was soon afterwards approached by Morone, the experienced minister of the Duke of Milan, with an offer of the kingdom of Naples for himself if he would join a league which was being formed among the Italian princes to free Italy of foreign rulers, whether French, Spanish, or German. Historians differ in their accounts of his conduct in this delicate affair. Writers in the imperial interest from that time to this assert that he indignantly rejected the proposal, which involved both treachery and ingratitude—even although he had not received the full measure of his merits—and Sandoval says that he showed himself among those double-dealing Italians “verdadero Español, Castellano viejo.” Certain it is that Pescara used to consider himself more a Spaniard than an Italian, was prouder of his Spanish blood than of his Neapolitan title, and often regretted that he was not born in the land of his ancestors. On the other hand, Italian writers say that he fully committed himself, and was perfectly willing to abandon and turn against his sovereign, but that at the last moment he quailed, and basely betrayed his companions to the vengeance of the emperor, for which reason the rancorous Guicciardini (xiv.. 189) calls him, with almost incredible insolence, “Capitano altiero, insidioso, maligno, senz’ alcuna sincerità.” More moderate historians say that he was merely dazzled by the prospect of a crown, perhaps even entertained the proposition, and would probably have thrown himself into the movement but for the protest and heroic abnegation of his wife. The truth seems to be, as Gregorovius remarks, that national antipathy has biassed the judgment of Italian writers. Immediately after the battle of Pavia, Charles V. wrote a most flattering autograph letter to Vittoria. Her answer from Ischia, May 1, 1525, is written in a fair hand, and preserved among the papers of the Gonzaga Archives at Mantua.
Pescara received three wounds, and lay for some months suffering from their effects, which he imprudently aggravated by copious draughts of ice-water. He was too weak to travel, and, growing worse, sent a hasty messenger to his wife to come to Milan and receive his last breath. She started immediately, but was met at Viterbo by the fatal intelligence that he had died on Nov. 25.[186] His funeral took place on the 30th, and the body was afterwards transported to Naples and buried in the church of St. Dominic. Paulus Jovius, a contemporary, wrote his life—Vita Ferdinandi Davali Pescarii—in elegant Latin. A literary memorial of Spanish domination in another extremity of Europe, and of the days when, the great school of war being transferred from classical Italy to the Netherlands, the gests of illustrious soldiers were eagerly studied by military men—although, as a rule, no longer in the learned language of Cæsar’s Commentaries—is preserved to us in the Historia del fortissimo y prudentissimo Capitan Don Hernando de Avalos, Marques de Pescara, published at Antwerp in 1570.
Vittoria’s first impulse, following this shock, was to take the religious habit, but she was prudently dissuaded by the learned Sadolet, Bishop of Carpentras, who was then in Rome, from a measure which would seem to proceed rather from overwhelming grief than mature deliberation. She did, however, retire for a time to the convent of San Silvestro in Capite, which was closely connected with the fortunes of the Colonna family. It was during this pious retreat that she began that In Memoriam to her dead husband which we will mention a little further on.
The first seven years of her widowhood were passed in inconsolable grief. She resided at different periods either with her father’s family at Rome, Marino, or in some other of their castles, or at Naples and Ischia with the relatives of her late husband. Being still in the prime of life, in the bloom of beauty, and well provided for by Pescara’s will, her hand was sought in marriage by several distinguished suitors; but she turned a deaf ear to all proposals of this kind, vowing that her first love still reigned supreme.
Amor le faci spense ove l’accese.[187]
(Love lit his torch, and quenched it in the flame.)
When the Emperor Charles V. was in Rome in 1536, he made a ceremonious visit, the more honorable as his stay was so short in the Eternal City, to the widow of his faithful general. In 1537 she made a tour among several cities in northern Italy, and was everywhere received with the greatest distinction. We find her with the Ducal Estes at Ferrara, with the celebrated Veronica Gambara[188] at Bologna, and with the erudite Ghiberto, Bishop of Verona. From a letter of Pietro Aretino it appears that she was bent about this period on making a pilgrimage to Jerusalem, but was dissuaded by her adopted son and husband’s heir, Del Vastro, who feared that her health would very seriously suffer. During this time, also, she assisted Bernardo Tasso (father of the poet), who acknowledges the benefit he received from her religious sentiments.
In 1538 she was back again in Rome, and one of the most interesting episodes of her life—her friendship with Michael Angelo—was then begun. The austere artist, who was sixty-four years old, felt animated by a fervent but chaste affection, such as he had never before experienced. It brought him the poet’s crown to add to his other crowns of painter, architect, and sculptor; for it is chiefly upon his sonnets to Vittoria that his literary reputation rests. The few years of this sacred friendship were the happiest in his life; and it is no small part of our heroine’s reputation to have inspired in this wonderful man a muse so chaste and powerful. His poetic addresses to her, though marked, says Harford, by the highest admiration of her mind and heart, are throughout expressive of the most reverential respect. They gratefully acknowledge her condescending courtesy, and the beneficial influence of her piety and wisdom upon his own opinions, fluctuating between vice and virtue, but he never presumes even to refer to her personal attractions. It was only after her death, and then but in a single sonnet, that he relaxed in a slight degree his habitual reserve and sang of her earthly beauty. But the strain is still elevated far above the expressions of carnal love, and describes a celestial countenance not unworthy of the Beatrice of Dante.
How highly she was esteemed by all classes is shown, among many other sources, from the words of an unprejudiced foreigner then in Rome, the Spanish artist d’Olanda, who says in his journal that she is one of the noblest and most famous women in Italy and in the whole world; beautiful, chaste, a Latin scholar; adorned with every grace that can redound to a woman’s praise; devoting herself since her husband’s death to thoughts of Christ and to study; supporting the needy; a model of genuine piety. From a letter of Cardinal Pole, dated April 2, 1541, we learn that she visited Ratisbon, but neither the motives nor any details of this long journey have been discovered; only it is known that she was received with honor by the emperor and by the citizens. Her fame, then, had already passed the Alps. On her return from Germany she rested for a while in the convent of San Paolo at Orvieto, whence she wrote to Cardinal Pole, expressing how much delight she found in the rules and society of the sisters, whom she calls “a company of angels.” It was while in this holy place that the apostate Ochino sent her a letter, in which he tried to explain and apologize for his conduct; but she indignantly forwarded it to Cervini at Rome, to be lodged with the ecclesiastical authorities, as it was unbecoming in her to receive any communication from such a reprobate. With fine womanly tact she had long before discovered the weak points in the character of this gifted but miserable man, consumed by pride and lust, and, after hearing him preach, she used often, as though struck by some vague apprehension of a hidden conflict in that eloquent soul, pray for his final perseverance.
And yet it is from her intercourse with several persons—Valdez, Ochhino, Vermigli (Peter Martyr), and some others, who afterwards became heretics, that her English biographers especially have striven to make her out a Protestant! There is not one sentence in her voluminous writings which can be honestly made to bear an uncatholic sense. But we perceive everywhere a love of the church, a respect for the pope—whom she styles, in the most orthodox language, “the Vicar of Christ”—an admiration for celibacy and the religious life,[189] and, finally, a tender devotion to the Blessed Virgin Mary. If this be Protestantism, Protestants are welcome to it; and God grant they may make the most of it! Cardinal Pole, who was many years her junior, used to honor her as his mother, and assiduously cultivated her friendship. She left him a legacy of 10,000 scudi in her will, but he made it over to her niece. At Viterbo she displayed a lively interest in all matters of education, and took the greatest pleasure in teaching the pupils entrusted to the religious community of St. Catherine.
Vittoria returned to Rome at the beginning of the year 1547, and retired to the palace of Julian Cesarini, who was married to Julia Colonna. While here she fell very ill, and, feeling her end approach, she was filled with the pious sentiments of one of her own sonnets, composed but a short time before, and which will show her constant preparation for death and serve as a specimen of her style. The translation is by Harford:
She died towards the end of February, 1547—the exact date is not known—in the odor of sanctity, as one of her Italian biographers says. By her will she made Ascanio Colonna her heir, left one thousand scudi to each of the four convents in which she had so often lived, provided for all her servants, and disposed of a large sum in charity, besides making other pious bequests. Her signature to this instrument is in Latin, in these words: Ita testavi ego Vitoria Columna.
Strange it is, perhaps, but yet a worthy ending of a life of humility and mortification, even in the midst of the glories of the world, that no monument is raised over her remains. In fact, her body cannot be identified; for having requested to be buried in the religious habit of the nuns of Sant’Anna de’ Funari, and in their midst, it was committed to the common vault of the community, where it lies undistinguished from the others that repose there.
Her poetry may be classified into a series composed during her husband’s life and the first years of her widowhood, and another written when she had devoted herself to a stricter manner of living. The former is taken up with conjugal love, descriptions of nature, and miscellaneous subjects; the latter is exclusively given up to religious ideas: one is the profane, the other the sacred, series. As an example of the lofty energy with which her mind poured its whole current of feeling into the channel of Christian devotion, we present her 28th sonnet in Harford’s translation:
As an impartial critic we must confess that, however refined the language, beautiful the sentiments, and learned the imagery, there is too much classical grandiloquence in her love-songs to permit us to forget the head that composed, and allow us to think only of the heart that inspired, them. When Pescara went forth on his first military expedition, she described her grief in a long rhymed letter of thirty-seven stanzas, in which all that is heroic in ancient Greece and Rome is summoned to witness her disconsolate state. The opening address—Eccelso Mio Signore! (My high-engendered Lord!)—while it shows the reverential homage which the wife in those days was expected to offer to her husband, and which, with all its formalism, was better than the disrespectful familiarity of a later age, is the prelude to a style altogether too much like that of the eccentric Margaret, Duchess of Newcastle, whose biography of her husband—her Julius Cæsar, her thrice noble, high, and puissant Prince, as she used to call him—is the acme of connubial admiration. After the death of Pescara, Vittoria depicted her own grief and his great, good qualities in a flow of verses full of beauty, dignity, and pathos. Upwards of one hundred sonnets are devoted to his memory. Trollope, with the conceit of his class, calls these touching expressions of sorrow “the tuneful wailings of a young widow as lovely as inconsolable, as irreproachable as noble”; but the more generous feelings and, doubtless, the Catholic instincts of her French biographer discover in this exquisite threnody a form of prayer to God for peace to the living and eternal rest to the dead. After seven years of widowhood a great change took place in her nature. She gave herself up entirely to higher influences; and the difference of style is remarkable between her worldly and her religious poems. The first are, as we have said, devoted to the love of a mortal object; the second to a divine dilection. This series is entitled Rime Spirituali. She begins it:
And again we observe in the following production her resolve to abandon pagan allusions and confine her poetry to sublimer subjects:
All writers on Italian poetry are agreed that for delicacy and grace of style Vittoria ranks next to Petrarch.
Several medals and portraits have perpetuated her features at different periods of life. Of the former, two were made while her husband was living—both heads being represented—and two during her widowhood. A most beautiful medal was struck at Rome in 1840 on occasion of the marriage of Prince Torlonia to Donna Teresa Colonna, but the face is more or less ideal. Several portraits were painted during her lifetime, but it is difficult to trace them all. Some are lost, and others are doubtful originals. The thoroughly genuine one (say the Romans) is that in the Colonna Gallery. It is a fine type of chaste and patrician beauty. It was taken when she was about eighteen; although how it can in this case (and it certainly represents her still in her teens) be ascribed to Muziano, as it is by Mrs. Roscoe, we cannot understand, because this artist was born only in 1528, when Vittoria was already thirty-eight years old. The fact is that the artist is unknown; but there should be some acuteness even in conjecture. Although it would be highly flattering to the vanity of her race, and of the Romans in general, to believe that her portrait was sketched by Michael Angelo and painted by Sebastiano del Piombo, they reject with horror the celebrated picture by their hands in the Tribune at Florence in which others see her face and figure. The best judges, however, call it simply “A Lady, 1512”; and our ideal of Vittoria revolts from the voluptuous features and disgusting pectoral development of this portrait; but if it were possible to determine it in her favor (?) we should have to exclaim:
“Appena si può dir, questà furosa.”
All writers on Italian literature mention our heroine at considerable length; but of separate biographies the principal ones are the following: Gio. Batt. Rota, Rime e Vita di D. Vittoria Colonna, Marchesana di Pescara, 1 vol. 8vo, 1760; Isabella Teotochi Albizzi, Ritratti, etc., Pisa, 1826 (4th ed., copy in Astor Library); John S. Harford, Life of Michael Angelo Buonarotti … with Memoirs of … Vittoria Colonna, 2 vols., London, 1857 (Astor Library); Cav. P. E. Visconti, Vita di Vittoria Colonna, Rome, 1840; Le Fèvre Deumier published a memoir of her in French in 1856; T. A. Trollope, A Decade of Italian Women; Mrs. Henry Roscoe, Vittoria Colonna, 1 vol., London, 1868. In 1844 the Accademia degli Arcadi at Rome decreed to have a bust of Vittoria made and placed in the museum of the Capitol. It was inaugurated with great pomp on May 12, 1845; and thirty-two poems in Latin and Italian were written to celebrate the event, and afterwards collected into a volume and published. The following is the simple inscription beneath the bust:
A. Vittoria Colonna.
N.MCCCCXC. M.MDXLVII.
Teresa. Colonna. Principessa. Romana.
Pose.
MDCCCXLV.
[185] Published only in 1785.
[186] Philippe Macquer, in his esteemed work, Abrégé Chronologique de l’Histoire d’Espagne et de Portugal (1759-65), 2 vols. 8vo, says that there is ground for believing that he was poisoned by his enemies, which we think is very likely to have been the case.
[187] 18th Sonnet.
[188] One of the most distinguished females of the age, and for love of letters and literary success ranking next to Vittoria. She was born in 1485; her father, the Count Gianfrancesco Gambara of Brescia; her mother, Alda Pia of Carpi; her husband was Ghiberto, Lord of Correggio. She died in 1550.
[189] Writing to Michael Angelo from the convent of St. Catherine at Viterbo, as late as 1543, she calls the nuns, her companions, “the spouses of Christ.”