Alessandra, Letters from a Widowand
Matriarch of a Great Family (1450–1465)
Although there were differences by region, women in medieval and Renaissance Europe were usually under legal guardianship—typically that of a father or husband. Although women of the lower classes may have had more freedom in terms of work and marriage early in their lives, their upper-class counterparts gained their greatest prestige and power through widowhood. Alessandra (1407–1471) married Matteo Strozzi (c. 1397–1435), a wealthy merchant whose business had branches throughout Europe. But when Matteo died of the effects of the plague while exiled for being in opposition to Cosimo de’ Medici (1389–1464), Alessandra’s financial situation became more difficult because she had sons and daughters to marry and a great household to maintain. She engaged in lengthy correspondence with her sons about political, marital, and economic conditions that affected the family. The following excerpts from letters to her son Filippo show some of the realities of Italian life during the Renaissance—exile; political danger if one did not agree with the ruling faction; marriages that were contracted solely for reasons of politics, honor, and clientage; and slavery.
From Eric Cochrane and Julius Kirshner, eds., University of Chicago Readings in Western Civilization, 5: The Renaissance (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1986), 109, 113–17.
To Filippo, 1450
Really, as long as there are young girls in the house, you do nothing but work for them, so when she leaves I will have no one to attend to but you three. And when I get the house in a little better shape I would love it if you would think about coming home. You would have no cause to be ashamed with what there is now, and you could do honor to any friend who dropped in to see you at home. But two or three years from now it will all be much better. And I would love to get you a wife; you’re of an age now to know how to manage the help and to give me some comfort and consolation. I have none. . . .
You know that some time ago I bought Cateruccia, our slave, and for several years now, though I haven’t laid a hand on her, she has behaved so badly toward me and the children that you wouldn’t believe it if you hadn’t seen it. Our Lorenzo could tell you all about it. . . . I’ve always suffered it because I can’t chastise her, and besides I thought you would come once a month so that we could come to a decision together or she could be brought to better obedience. For several months now she has been saying and is still saying that she doesn’t want to stay here, and she is so moody that no one can do a thing with her. If it weren’t for love of Lesandra, I would have told you to sell her, but because of her malicious tongue, I want to see Lesandra safely out of the house first. But I don’t know if I can hold out that long: mark my words, I’m going to get her out of my sight because I don’t want this constant battle. She pays no more attention to me than if I were the slave and she were the mistress, and she threatens us all so that Lesandra and I are both afraid of her.
To Filippo, 1459
It grieves me, my son, that I’m not near you to take some of these troublesome things off your hands. You should have told me the first day Matteo fell sick so I could have jumped on a horse and been there in just a few days. But I know that you didn’t do it for fear I would get sick or would be put to trouble. . . . I have been told that in the honors you arranged for the burial of my son you did honor to yourself as well as to him. You did all the better to pay him such honor there, since here they don’t usually do anything for those who are in your condition [that is, in exile]. Thus I am pleased that you did so. Here these two girls, who are unconsolable over the death of their brother, and I have gone into mourning, and because I had not yet gotten the woolen cloth to make a mantle for myself, I have gotten it now and I will pay for it.
To Filippo, 1465
I told you in my other [letter] what happened about 601 [the daughter of Francesco Tanagli], and there’s nothing new there. And you have been advised that there is no talk of 59 [a woman who belonged to the Adimari family] until we have placed the older girl. 13 [Marco Parenti] believes we should do nothing further until we can see our way clearly concerning these two and see what way they will go. Considering their age, this shouldn’t take too long. It’s true that my wish would be to see both of you with a companion, as I have told you many times before. That way when I die I would think you ready to take the step all mothers want—seeing their sons married—so your children could enjoy what you have acquired with enormous effort and stress over the long years. To that end, I have done my very best to keep up the little I have had, foregoing the things that I might have done for my soul’s sake and for that of our ancestors. But for the hope I have that you will take a wife (in the aim of having children), I am happy to have done so. So what I would like would be what I told you. Since then I have heard what Lorenzo’s wants are and how he was willing to take her to keep me happy, but that he would be just as glad to wait two years before binding himself to the lady. I have thought a good deal about the matter, and it seems to me that since nothing really advantageous to us is available, and since we have time to wait these two years, it would be a good idea to leave it at that unless something unexpected turns up. Otherwise, it doesn’t seem to me something that requires immediate thought, particularly considering the stormy times we live in these days, when so many young men on this earth are happy to inhabit it without taking a wife. The world is in a sorry state, and never has so much expense been loaded on the backs of women as now. No dowry is so big that when the girl goes out she doesn’t have the whole of it on her back, between silks and jewels. . . . If 60 works out well, we could sound out the possibility of the other girl for him. There’s good forage there if they were to give her, and at any [other] time it would have been a commendable move. As things are going now, it seems to me better to wait and see a while for him. . . . This way something may come of it, and they will not offer a wife without money, as people are doing now, since it seems superfluous to those who are giving 50 to give her a dowry. 13 wrote you that 60’s father touched on the matter with him in the way I wrote you about. He says that you should leave it to us to see to it and work it out. For my part, I’ve done my diligent best, and I can’t think what more I could have done—for your consolation than my own. . . .
Niccolò has gone out of office, and although he did some good things, they weren’t the ones I would have wanted. Little honor has been paid to him or to the other outgoing magistrates, either when they were in office, or now that they have stepped down. Our scrutineer was quite upset about it, as were we, but I feel that what was done will collapse, and it is thought they will start fresh. This Signoria has spent days in deliberation, and no one can find out anything about them. They have threatened to denounce whoever reveals anything as a rebel, so things are being done in total secrecy. I have heard that 58 [the Medici] is everything and 54 [the Pitti] doesn’t stand a chance. For the moment, it looks to me as if they will get back to 56 [the Pucci] in the runoffs, if things continue to go as now. May God, who can do all, set this city right, for it is in a bad way. Niccolò went in proudly and then lost heart—as 14’s [Soderini] brother said, “He went in a lion and he will go out a lamb,” and that’s just what happened to him. When he saw the votes were going against him, he began to humble himself. Now, since he left office, he goes about accompanied by five or six armed men for fear. . . . It would have been better for him if [he had never been elected], for he would never have made so many enemies. . . .
[T]hink about having Niccolò Strozzi touch on the matter with Giovanfrancesco for 45 [Lorenzo], if you think it appropriate. Although I doubt that she would deign [to marry] so low, still, it sometimes happens that you look in places that in other times you wouldn’t have dreamed of, by the force of events—deaths or other misfortunes. So think about it.
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