“A VISO SCOPERTO” / UNMASKED FACES: A COMPARATIVE STUDY OF THE

MANDRAGOLA AND THE VENEXIANA

by

MELINDA CRO

(Under the Direction of Thomas Peterson)

ABSTRACT

In this study I undertake a comparison of two Italian plays of the primo

Cinquecento, La Mandragola of Niccolò Machiavelli and the anonymous Venexiana.

Although they are frequently mentioned in conjunction, no one has yet undertaken the task of comparing and contrasting these two important works which are so often linked together. I propose to rectify this situation with a comparative and contextual study of these two plays, arguably the most important and innovative dramatic works of the Italian

Cinquecento. In order to offer a global look at the plays, I will include a discussion of possible sources and influences as well as a look at the historical context, all of which might well have influenced their creation. In so doing, it will be demonstrated that manipulation and plurality, on various levels, are the overarching “ties that bind”.

Further, I will examine the element of spectacle as it applies to this time period and these two plays in particular.

INDEX WORDS: Niccolò Machiavelli; Mandragola; Venexiana; Veniexiana; Italian

Drama; Italian Comedy; Italian Theatre; Italy-16th Century; Cinquecento; Italian

Literature.

“A VISO SCOPERTO” / UNMASKED FACES: A COMPARATIVE STUDY OF THE

MANDRAGOLA AND THE VENEXIANA

by

MELINDA CRO

B.A., King College, 2004

A Thesis Submitted to the Graduate Faculty of The University of Georgia in Partial

Fulfillment of the Requirements for the Degree

MASTER OF ARTS

ATHENS, GEORGIA

2006

© 2006

Melinda Cro

All Rights Reserved

“A VISO SCOPERTO” / UNMASKED FACES: A COMPARATIVE STUDY OF THE

MANDRAGOLA AND THE VENEXIANA

by

MELINDA CRO

Major Professor: Thomas Peterson

Committee: Steven Grossvogel Concettina Pizzuti

Electronic Version Approved:

Maureen Grasso Dean of the Graduate School The University of Georgia May 2006 iv

DEDICATION

I dedicate this work to my parents, Stelio and Ann Cro. Their love, constant support and encouragement, and their infinite faith and wisdom have been a source of inspiration for me throughout my life. This endeavor would have been impossible without them. v

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I wish to thank first my major professor, Dr. Thomas Peterson. His guidance and

willingness to permit me to explore different avenues of research have been invaluable

and I shall never forget it. I was first intrigued by Machiavelli’s work while sitting in a

small classroom in Gilbert Hall early one morning in Dr. Peterson’s class, and the seed he

planted in my mind that day has blossomed. I am very grateful. I also wish to extend my

thanks to the other committee members, Dr. Steven Grossvogel and Dr. Concettina

Pizzuti. Their intellectual support and encouragement is much appreciated. These

professors meet each task with an enthusiasm that is contagious. I must also thank Dr.

Debbie Bell whose understanding, patience, and encouragement meant very much to a

young and overwhelmed teaching assistant. I would also like to thank the faculty and

staff of the Department of Romance Languages at the University of Georgia. One could

not hope for a finer and more able group of people.

This work could truly not have come to fruition had it not been for the support

and understanding of my family and friends. My parents are a constant source of

inspiration. They have lived their lives in the pursuit of knowledge, an adventure that I did not thoroughly understand in my youth but that I always longed to join. I must also mention my sister, Rebecca, whose wit and love have made even the most difficult of tasks seem bearable. I owe a great deal to my family, for I would not be who I am today but for them. I must also thank my friends for their patience as I sorted through this vi

research. No matter how “out of it” I might have been, they were always there to offer a shoulder to lean on or a quick break from the monotony of study and office life.

Finally, I must offer this work to the Lord above, through whom all things are

possible.

Thank you. vii

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Page

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS...... v

CHAPTER

1 INTRODUCTION AND REVIEW OF SCHOLARSHIP...... 1

2 SOURCES AND CONTEXT ...... 13

3 MANIPULATION: THE LANGUAGE OF LOVE...... 46

4 THEATRICALITY, SPECTACLE, AND PERFORMANCE...... 87

WORKS CITED ...... 104

Cro 1

CHAPTER 1:

INTRODUCTION AND REVIEW OF SCHOLARSHIP

William Shakespeare (1564-1616) saw the world as a stage and expressed this

view in the words of one of his characters, Jacques, in the comedy As You Like It:

JACQUES. All the world’s a stage,

And all the men and women merely players:

They have their exits and their entrances;

And one man in his time plays many parts,

His acts being seven ages… (2.7)

Jacques’ words, first presented in 1599 with the premiere of As You Like It (Wilson and

Goldfarb 193), shed light on an awareness already present in the dramatic works of the

beginning of the sixteenth century (il primo Cinquecento) in Italy. The Mandragola of

Niccolò Machiavelli and the Venexiana (author unknown) exemplify two works whose

authors are clearly aware of the interplay of reality and imagination in the dramatic

structure. As vehicles of this interplay, they chose comedy, perhaps feeling it better suited

to an intimate look at “contemporary” Italian society. One can but offer educated guesses

as to their motivations for selecting comedy (indeed, whether these plays fall into the

“classical” comedic genre is a point for later discussion). What is certain is that relatively

little attention has been given to these two works of Italian Renaissance theater

(particularly in comparison to the amount of scholarship done on Shakespeare, Molière,

or Pirandello), despite the fact that they are noted by scholars as original and innovative:

“A few years ago there came to light an anonymous comedy, The Venexiana, the only Cro 2

impassioned comedy of the century, the only one—together with the Mandragola— which goes completely beyond the conventional schemes” (Momigliano, qtd. in Richter

134). The words are those of Attilio Momigliano, a well-known Italian literary critic.

Bobo L. O. Richter underlines the importance of this “union” in his article, “La

Venexiana in the Light of Recent Criticism”: “…it was Momigliano himself, ever aware

of newly emerging esthetic values, who pointed out the discovery of a comedy that he did

not hesitate to place alongside of Machiavelli’s masterpiece [the Mandragola]” (Richter

134).

Mentioning these two works of the primo Cinquecento in conjunction with one

another is a common practice in various scholarly articles,1 however, no one has

undertaken the task of actually comparing and contrasting them. I propose to rectify this situation with a comparative and contextual study of these two plays, arguably the most important and innovative dramatic works of the Italian Cinquecento. In order to offer a global look at the plays, I will include a discussion of possible sources and influences as well as a look at the historical context, all of which might well have influenced their creation. In so doing, it will be demonstrated that manipulation and plurality, on various levels, are the overarching “ties that bind”.

These Renaissance comedies are considered unique thanks in large part to the creativity of their authors. The use of the spoken language, i.e. the dialect; the urban setting; the doubling and plurality of the characters; the use of humor and manipulation—

all these elements combine to create a modern drama of human nature. I propose to

clarify the context within which each play was written, and to go further by discussing

1 Mention of La Mandragola occurs in a number of articles that deal with La Venexiana, but only briefly— for examples, see those of Carù, Richter, and Alonge in the works cited. All mention both texts in their various discussions. Cro 3 possible performance aspects that at times seem forgotten in the academic discussion of dramatic works. It is important to remember that these works were meant to be seen and heard before being read. Any examination of the texts would be remiss not to note the performance circumstances and histories of the works. Further, I will offer my own textual readings of the plays, comparing and contrasting them. In so doing, I am offering the next natural step that has been proposed by other scholars before me.

The importance of such a study is relevant when one looks into the thoughts of leading scholars in theater history circles. In the textbook, Living Theatre: A History, used by many universities, the authors write as follows concerning the Italian

Renaissance:

Neither Roman theatre nor medieval theatre, for example, is noted for

great playwriting, and the same is true of the Italian Renaissance. Most of

the plays written during the Italian Renaissance were staged, or sometimes

just read aloud, at academies—formal institutions of learning—or for

wealthy patrons. These plays left no lasting mark except for their influence

on writers who were to follow: some Renaissance playwrights in England,

Spain, and France did draw on Italian plays. (Wilson and Goldfarb 154)

The fact that a certain amount of scholarship has been conducted on these two plays should contradict the thought that Italian Renaissance plays “left no lasting mark except for their influence on writers who were to follow.” In fact, the great French philosopher and author Voltaire held a high opinion of the Mandragola, saying of it: “…la seule

Mandragore de Machiavel vaut peut-être mieux que toutes les pièces d’Aristophane… »

(qtd. in Fido 93). It is my hope, with this study, to perhaps correct the erroneous view Cro 4

quoted above of the theater of the Italian Renaissance at least as it pertains to these two

plays whose originality and innovativeness not only in plot and language but also in

setting and theatricality could indeed rival the contributions of playwrights such as

Molière and Shakespeare.

Review of Scholarship: (1) The Venexiana

As alluded to above, not all scholars have overlooked the significance of the

theater of the Italian Renaissance, in particular as it pertains to the two plays in question.

Quality scholarship has been completed on both plays; however because of the relative

“newness” of the discovery of the Venexiana2 less has been done on it than on the

Mandragola. The most noted scholarship is that of Giorgio Padoan who is referenced by most of the other scholars included in this study3 who have published on the Venexiana.

In his 1967 article entitled “La Veniexiana4: Non fibula non comedia, ma vera historia”

published in Lettere Italiane, Padoan proposes a date for the play (which is silent on the

question of authorship and dating) of the winter of 1535-6 or the winter of 1536-7

(DeBellis 130) and proposes that the play is in fact based heavily in reality, “His

conclusions are strongly supported by the massive (if not overwhelming) data that he was

able to gather and evaluate…Although Padoan found that generally the same situation

could have existed in the 1510 period, he discovered that only around 1535 did every

piece of the puzzle fit completely” (DeBellis 130). A similar discussion about Padoan’s

2 Emilio Lovarini discovered the work in 1928 (DeBellis 129).

3 See Richter, Andrews, Carù, Walsh and DeBellis.

4 Padoan has argued for a variant of the title: La Veniexiana rather than La Venexiana. I follow the traditional title, adopted by the vast majority of critics. Cro 5

article is put forth in Richter’s study, however where Richter praises Padoan and finds his

research to be conclusive, Anthony DeBellis remains uncertain, arguing that the play could have been written as early as 1493-5. DeBellis concerns himself with the dating of

The Venexiana in particular in his 1977 article in Romance Notes. Through his scholarship, we can establish an a quo date of 1493 and an ad quem of 1537 (The latter stemming from Padoan’s study).

While Padoan and DeBellis concern themselves primarily with the dating and historical context of the work, Richter offers a summary of scholarship done on the play, and references Zorzi’s “Scheda per La Venexiana” (another important contribution to the scholarship of the Venetian comedy) found in the latter’s dual-language (Venetian and

Italian Standard) edition of the play published by Einaudi in 1965. Richter goes on to give a summary of the plot while offering some commentary on it. Richter’s study seems to be more of an introduction for English-speaking audiences to the play, and considering his article dates from 1970, it could well have been one of the earliest studies dedicated to the Venexiana in English.

Roberto Alonge’s article, “Crisi delle strutture e strutture della crisi nella

«Veniexiana »” examines the structure of the play in great depth and proposes a

dichotomy visible between “open” and “closed” spaces. He correlates the concept of

open and closed spaces to the characters that occupy said spaces: “Esiste in effetti nella

commedia uno spazio aperto, costituito dale calli, dai canali, dale adiacenze delle case di

Valeria e di Angela; ed esiste lo spazio chiuso delle abitazioni di Valeria e di Angela”

(211). He continues to link this “bipolarità” (213) of the space with the concept of time

and further characterizes the closed space as authentic and static while he characterizes Cro 6

the open space as banal and dynamic (216). He offers an in-depth study of the structure

of the play and makes reference to various possible sources. He will be discussed further

throughout this study.

As mentioned above, Ludovico Zorzi’s “Scheda per La Venexiana” is of particular importance. He tackles the majority of issues that often arise when dealing with

this play. He mentions the previous scholarship of Lovarini in establishing a possible author (Girolamo Fracastoro [108]) and discusses the dating of the play. Zorzi is rather definite as to the latter issue, citing the period of the League of Cambrai from 1509 to

1518 (105). This scholar also discusses possible sources and influences on the play, such

as Bandello’s novella XXV (104) and Boccaccio’s Decameron (111). He does address

the question of the “verismo” or realism of the work, furthered and expounded upon later

by Padoan, citing the final “explicit” as central to the question: “Non Fabula non

Comedia ma vera Historia” (110). While Zorzi points out that it could merely underline

the satirical intentions of the author, he does allow for the possibility that the play does

indeed recount an actual historical event. The discussion of the realism of the play

continues throughout the article. Zorzi underlines the realism in the play, noting the

playwright’s ability to capture the reality of Venice in the sixteenth century: “la

Venexiana è veramente una sintesi della Venezia cinquecentesca, composta e integrata da

presenze tra loro inscindibili” (101). Zorzi is quick to point out the similarities and the

differences between the play and its possible classical influences (115) and mentions the

uniqueness of the language and the diversity of the use of dialect, Italian, and Latin. The

article closes with a discussion of the naturalistic and realistic aspects of the play,

including a brief look at its structure and the setting. Cro 7

The play has been mentioned in a number of different anthologies and studies of

sixteenth century theater and literature (most notably in Benedetto Croce’s Poesia

popolare e poesia d’arte), and scholarship on the play has picked up again recently. In

1994, Paola Carù offered a comparison of the nature of seduction and the use of language

within the Venexiana with particular attention to the female protagonists. Richard

Andrews (1996) grapples with the question of staging the play, not in a modern context,

but in its historical context. This question will be further elaborated and dealt with in my

study. In 2000 Roberto Alonge continues with the trend towards examining the “scena cittadina” or the urban setting of the work in his study of the Mandragola, Lena, and the

Venexiana (Alonge 51-86). Carmela Pesca furthers Alonge’s discussion of urban settings

in her book, La città maschera wherein she studies Florence with reference to the

Mandragola and Venice with reference to the Venexiana.

Martin W. Walsh, in his 2000 introduction to the Venexiana translated by Carolyn

Feleppa Balducci, seeks to clarify the context of the play again, but relies heavily on

Padoan’s discussions already mentioned. He does offer a bit of a textual reading, albeit limited in scope, and provides a useful and clear stage history of the play and a discussion

of the staging. This discussion comes from a practical and contemporary point of view:

Walsh himself directed the University of Michigan’s Harlotry Players “fully costumed,

script-in-hand production” of the play in March 1998 (Walsh 24).

(2) The Mandragola

In continuing the consideration of previous scholarship, we now turn to the

Mandragola. It is of interest to note that once again, while there are a number of articles Cro 8

that deal with the play, as is the case with the Venexiana, one does not find a large

number of books devoted solely to the study of this play. Rather, one finds chapters or

mentions here and there, or studies of the work in comparison with the author’s other

literary endeavors. It seems strange that a work recognized even by the skeptical and

harsh Wilson and Goldfarb as still in production (although they are hasty to add that the

dramas of Italian Renaissance authors “are of little interest to contemporary theater practitioners and are rarely revived” [158]—a fact openly contradicted by Walsh’s 1998 production) should receive so relatively little attention. However, there are a number of feminist interpretations of the Mandragola offered by Melissa M. Matthes, Mary

O’Brien, and Maristella de Panizza Lorch (the first two mentioned were published in

2004, the latter in 1989). O’Brien offers a comparison of the Mandragola with

Machiavelli’s political writings with a marked feminist interpretation in her article, “The

Root of the Mandrake”. She imposes on an earlier time period an interpretation that is at times unclear and contradictory. While she proposes to study the Mandragola, she is more interested in the political writings of the author. Her first comment on the play sums up the tone of the article rather clearly: “Niccolò Machiavelli….wrote comedies: it is one of these, the Mandragola, which will be considered here. It may be thought a little odd that feminist criticism should find it in any way useful to spend time on a rather drearily unfunny comedy which is, moreover, profoundly misogynist” (O’Brien 174). Her interest lies more in the dualism of public domain versus private realm in the patriarchal polity than in a close reading of the play itself.

Lorch examines the use of laughter in the play in her article, “Women in the

Context of Machiavelli’s Mandragola.” She identifies Lorenzo Valla’s theory of pleasure Cro 9 as a background to the work : “I propose that, not only the poems by Boiardo and

Ariosto, rooted in a concept of ad-ventura which exemplifies an opening to life, but this comedy as well be explored as the realization of a form of philosophical follia, this time on the part of an author who is too rarely read as ‘a poet’” (Lorch 255-6). She further examines women in the comedy as “essential in the process of ‘creating laughter,’ from the particular, the individual, the every-day action” (254). She studies in particular the interaction between Fra Timoteo and the woman at the Church in Act III, offering la donna as a counterpoint to Lucrezia, and a foreshadowing of Lucrezia’s eventual transformation (260-1).

The character of Lucrezia is of particular interest to scholars. Ronald L. Martinez offers a comparison of Machiavelli’s Lucrezia with the Roman Lucretia described in

Livy’s Early History of Rome in his article, “The Pharmacy of Machiavelli: Roman

Lucretia in Mandragola” (1990) that Matthes echoes in her study of Lucrezia. Matthes underlines the possibility that perhaps the Mandragola is a retelling of Livy’s Rape of

Lucretia but is quick to point out the differences as well: “So while the content of the comedy is ostensibly a reinterpretation of Livy’s tragic rendition of the story of the rape of Lucretia… Machiavelli’s sense of humor…illuminates as much about his serious political argument as his reconfiguration of the story itself” (Matthes 250).

The editors or translators of various editions of the play have also made significant contributions to the field of scholarship on the Mandragola. Guido Davico

Bonino discusses meticulously the performance history of the play in the “Nota bibliografica” to his edition of the play in 1971 and provides some contextual Cro 10

explanation. Montanile offers a discussion of Machiavelli and the comic theater of the

Cinquecento in her introduction to her 2002 edition of the Mandragola.

Franco Fido offers two chapters dealing with Machiavelli in his book Le

metamorfosi del centauro (1977). Part I of the book considers Boccaccio and

Machiavelli, a natural union (as will be further discussed in my study). His most noted

article, “Politica e teatro nel Badalucco di Messer Nicia” (In this book it is Chapter 5) is

of particular interest because it examines the Mandragola in particular. Fido offers an

expansive critical view of the text, citing various critics (particularly French—Voltaire) and how they viewed the play throughout the centuries. He demonstrates a difference between how the play was viewed in the sixteenth, seventeenth, and eighteenth centuries versus a more modern reading: “Dal Cinquecento al Settecento la Mandragola fu letta e gustata per quello che era, una commedia e un divertimento…” (91-2). Later:

“Nell’Ottocento, invece, si comincia a prestare maggior attenzione al ‘contenuto’ della

Mandragola, si scoprono l’amarezza e le intenzioni satiriche dell’autore davanti alla bassezza del mondo rappresentato, e si finisce col reagire alla ‘materia’ che ‘non è degna’ con uno slancio persino eccessivo” (94). Fido also discusses briefly the Mandragola in conjunction with Machiavelli’s Prologo to his later comedy, La Clizia (1524-1525

[Ruffo-Fiore 116]) and to the playwright’s earlier Discorso intorno alla nostra lingua

(1514-1516 [Ruffo-Fiore 110]). Some of the most interesting, in my opinion, scholarship is Fido’s comparison between several of the characters in the play with those found in

Boccaccio’s Decameron. He offers this comparison while discussing possible sources for the Mandragola. He follows with a brief discussion of the “theatrical” and “dialectical” aspects of the play, and then focuses on Messer Nicia and a textual reading of the play. Cro 11

Finally, as is no doubt obvious, the plays are alluded to and/or discussed in various general histories of Italian literature and theater history. Of particular importance is Apollonio’s Storia del teatro italiano wherein he studies the context of the plays in the general timeline of Italian theater history. It is also more current, having been published in 1981, than Kennard, who also tackles Italian theater history; however his study dates from 1932. These and the general histories of Italian literature are useful more in their search to describe the general context rather than in their particular attention to the plays themselves.

Overview of the work

In the following study, I will endeavor to compare and contrast the Mandragola and the Venexiana in a clear manner, giving consideration to the context, both historical and literary, as well as looking into the aspects of performance. Below are the various chapters and what is to be attempted in each one:

Chapter 2: Sources and Context. A discussion of possible sources for the Mandragola

and the Venexiana, including Boccaccio’s Decameron and the Roman plays of

Plautus and Terence. In addition, I offer a discussion of the historical context and the

particular political situation as applicable.

Chapter 3: Manipulation: The Language of Love. A textual reading and comparison

of the two works in terms of structure, setting, language, characters, and style.

Chapter 4: Theatricality, Spectacle, and Performance. A discussion of the

performance of these plays at the time of their creation and a brief discussion of their

performance history. Some attention will be given to problems of staging. Also of Cro 12

some importance in considering how the “theatricality” of the works is to look into later adaptations, in particular film. Cro 13

CHAPTER 2:

SOURCES AND CONTEXT

As Franco Fido outlines in his article, “Politica e teatro nel badalucco di Messer

Nicia,” there are two necessary steps to each critical argument: [1] “considerare un testo

nella prospettiva di una ben definita tradizione di cultura, di linguaggio, di ‘genere’, e [2]

allo stesso tempo come espressione inconfondibile di un mondo intellettuale e fantastico che appartiene solo a chi l’ha scritto” (95). In considering our own discussion of the sources and context of the Mandragola and The Venexiana, we will endeavor to keep

these steps in mind. Let us begin with a consideration of the literary sources, influences,

and context within which these dramatic works were composed.

Roman Comedy

The most noted Roman playwrights are Plautus (Titus Maccius Plautus, c. 254-

184 B.C.E. [Wilson and Goldfarb 68]) and Terence (Publius Terentius Afer, c. 185-159

B.C.E. [Wilson and Goldfarb 70]). As Hadas indicates in the introduction to Roman

Drama, “It is the theater of Euripides that is the spiritual ancestor of Greek New Comedy,

of which all our Roman comedies are adaptations” (viii). While Wilson and Goldfarb’s

discussion of Italian Renaissance theater is sadly lacking, their discussion of Greek theater is quite thorough, and they identify Greek New Comedy as coming into its own by 336 B.C.E. They identify it as “a subtle comedy of manners and well-wrought intrigue which focused on domestic…situations and bourgeois life in the cities. In short, New

Comedy was more realistic, more down-to-earth, and its comedy arose not from satire Cro 14

and extreme exaggeration but from the foibles, pretenses, and complications of the

everyday life of Greek citizens” (57). Later, in the chapter on Roman theater, they

identify some of the changes the Roman playwrights made to the Greek New Comedy, including “elimination of the chorus….[,] addition of musical accompaniment to much of the dialogue… [, and] an emphasis on eavesdropping which led to frequent misunderstandings and complications” (67).

The Roman comedies were “notionally” set in Greece (Wiles 50). In the Roman

comedy, the main plot typically involves young lovers. Usually, a lovesick youth (almost

always male) is unhappy because his love interest, frequently a slave or young woman of

unequal social status with the noble protagonist of an affluent family, although

sometimes the young woman is actually from a noble family but this fact is typically

concealed from the young nobleman, is unattainable unless a large amount of money is

procured. If not money, deception is sometimes the device by which the lovesick youth

succeeds in attaining his love. Money and deception are Plautus’ choices in his

Pseudolus; Terence contents himself with deception in his Eunuch. Pseudolus was first

performed in 191 B.C., and is considered to be one of Plautus’ finer works (Smith 119).

Pseudolus, the title character of Plautus’ comedy, is a type of “slave-hero” who

conceives such an elaborate plot that it becomes a type of “play within the play.” Peter

L. Smith points out this “Pirandellian” aspect of the play in the Introduction to his

translation:

His [Plautus’] most apposite metaphors, however, are drawn from the

world of the stage. Plautus virtually convinces us that Pseudolus, the grand

master of improvisation, is making up the plot as he goes along: this slave- Cro 15

hero, so we believe, is starring in a comedy of his own creation.

Confirming this impression, Pseudolus serves his audience a continual diet

of theatrical criticism, offering a running commentary on the action that he

has invented. He has no fewer than seven formal soliloquies, and countless

other pointed asides. (120)

His intricate and convoluted scheme is designed in order to allow his master, Calidorus, to obtain his beloved Phoenicium, a whore sold by the “pimp” Ballio to another man. As

Smith notes, it is the individuality of the characters of this play that makes them stand out from the stock characters (which they exemplify) of New Comedy (119).

Similar praise is made of Terence’s Eunuch by the translator Douglass Parker:

“Terence has humanized and deepened the stock personae of New Comedy, not greatly, but enough to involve the audience with them at a different level, a level where hackneyed situations acquire a new and distressing reality through their participants”

(149). The Eunuch was first produced in 161 B.C. (153). The plot is thought to be

borrowed partially from Menander, the Greek playwright of New Comedy, with several

variations made by Terence (147). The slave Parmeno advises his master, Chaerea, to

disguise himself as a eunuch to enter undisturbed the house of the “Madame” Thais, and

enjoy the intimacy of Pamphila:

PARMENO. You could enjoy

These bits of bliss you’ve been talking about: This eating together

And sharing the house. This touching, playing, sleeping beside her.

None of the women in here has any idea who you are.

And one more thing: You’re a pretty boy, and just the right age; Cro 16

You easily pass for a eunuch. A casual inspection of course.

CHAEREA. Beautiful! I’ve never seen such advising! (2.3.374-380)

This passage is a moderate rendition of what Pseudolus reads to Calidorus in “his” play:

PSEUDOLUS. “Now our loves, our lives, our passionate embraces,

Laughter, fun, sweet talk, and sexy face-to-faces,

Slender little hips and thighs a-jiggle,

Tender little lips and tongues a-wiggle,

Juicy jousts of bouncy-boob and titty-tickle—

All our hopes of orgiastic consummation

Face dismemberment, disaster, desolation,

If we fail to find some mutual salvation.

Everything I know I’ve tried to tell you clearly:

Now I’ll put you to the test. One question, merely:

Are you in love or just pretending?

Yours sincerely.” (1.1.64-73)

This second passage in particular could be considered an antecedent for the erotic love scene between Angela1 and Iulio in the Venexiana, Act III, scene 3. Angela declares the

fire in her heart for the youthful Iulio, “Cor mio, ti prego che te me voie aver excusàa,

s’acussí grossamente e liçenziosamente te ho fato vegnir qua, e se prosumptuosamente

parlasse, o fesse qualche cossa che non ti paresse conveniente; perché el fogo del to

1 To be clear, there is a variation in the spelling of “Angela”: While the Italian standard is “Angela”, the Venetian is “Anzola”. In Zorzi’s edition, he uses the Italian standard in both the Venetian original and in his Italian standard translation. My use of “Angela” reflects what Zorzi uses since I am quoting from his version.

Cro 17

amor, che me bruscia, me ha infiamàa come dopier” (51-53)2. Later, in the same scene, the erotic is again highlighted through the words and actions of our lovers:

ANGELA. [siede sul letto e lo inviata vicino a sé] Acònzati qua. Ancora

un puco avanti.

IULIO. Vostra Signoria me fa torto. Pur, poiché i’ sum suo, non voglio in

cosa alguna contradire.

ANGELA. [rapita, aprendo le braccia] Eco, Anzola, el to contento! Eco

che ti ha presso el to amor e tuta la tua speranza.

IULIO. Madonna, sète voi mia, mia speranza, mia Signora.

ANGELA. Lo mio, lo volio guardar, ché nol sia robao; ma tegnerlo cussí,

in le braze, streto. [Lo abbraccia e si abbandona]. (55)

Moreover, the erotic and lustful underpinnings obvious in the Roman comedies are

present in Callimaco’s motivation for acting in the Mandragola.

Not only do the Italian Renaissance comedies of the Cinquecento, to which we are

paying particular attention, exhibit this same openness towards the erotic and passionate

side of love, but even the titles reveal some similarities. In both of the Roman examples

listed above, we see that the title is given to the trickster, to that character in the play (or

that element of the play) that provides the deception upon which, or whom, the whole

intrigue is based and improvised. Such is the case with Machiavelli’s commedia, for in

choosing to title it the Mandragola he is making reference to that “poison” around which

the entire action is based. But for the mandrake root, Callimaco would not bed Lucrezia,

Nicia would not be cuckolded, and Lucrezia would not experience her dramatic

2 Because this particular edition of La Venexiana does not have verse numbers, I am here providing the page numbers where the quotation can be found in the Zorzi edition. This will be continued throughout when referencing La Venexiana. Cro 18

development. In truth, that which is considered “poisonous” turns out to be lethal only for

the spirituality of Lucrezia and Nicia’s control over his wife. The mandrake takes on a

dual role, that of a poison already mentioned, and that of an aphrodisiac for Callimaco

and Lucrezia. It supplies the opportunity by which Lucrezia is aroused to Callimaco’s

desire / love over her duty to Nicia.

The question of the title in the case of the Venexiana is not so simply resolved.

Literally, the Venexiana could have two different English equivalents: “The Venetian

Comedy” or “The Venetian Woman.” I offer the latter interpretation that perhaps “La

Venexiana” refers to the Venetian woman, because it is consistent with the text and with the title itself. In Italian, using the adjective of a place as a noun often indicates a person

from that place. Alberto Moravia makes use of a similar technique in his novel La

Romana, a novel definitely about the Roman woman. Any number of questions arises

when considering the title of the work. If it is the former (as Zorzi indicates) is it meant to

describe Venetian society at the time? If it is the latter, is the play meant to function as an

allegory for all Venetian women in the period the author is writing, or does it refer to one

of the female protagonists in particular? And, if the latter proves to be the answer, which

protagonist did the author choose, Valeria or Angela? Alonge answers the question by

announcing that it is both: “La commedia è—come abbiamo spesso ripetuto—la

commedia delle due donne, la commedia di Venezia, la Veniexiana” (234). Suffice it to

say that trickery is not really the focus of the Venetian woman in the Venexiana as it

pertains to the love interest. Rather, trickery is employed to hide the affair from husbands

and other citizens (see for example, Valeria’s final remarks in Act V, scene 6 to Oria:

“Oria, fia, sera la camera e va’ su a Misser Grando [her husband], che no çiga. E se ‘l Cro 19

dise gnente de mi, di’ che ho mal e che, per questa sera, non voio che nissun me rompa la

testa” [99]). Moreover, keep in mind that the love scenes take place under the cover of night.

However, in spite of these obvious points of contact, both the Mandragola and the

Venexiana differ profoundly from the typical Roman comedy, especially as concerns the

female characters. In both plays, women are positive agents for the fulfillment of sexual

pleasure. And, in spite of the presence of secondary characters who make their contribution to the success of the plot conceived to fulfill the erotic craving, in comparison with the very limited roles reserved to women by both Plautus and Terence,

the female characters of both Mandragola and Venexiana are of central importance. In

both plays, women make active choices that have a profound effect on their world (in the

limited scope of their domestic dwelling, although it could be argued that the scope of their world might reach beyond the boundaries of the domestic threshold). This is perhaps one of the clearest examples of the originality and novelty of the Italian Renaissance comedy.

When considering the possibility of one literary work having influenced the

creation of a later one, it is necessary to consider whether or not the author would have

had knowledge of the particular work in question. In the case of Machiavelli, we know

for certain that he was aware and well-versed in Roman comedy, given his own

translation/adaptation of Terence’s Andria. While Machiavelli was probably not

cognizant of Aristotle’s Poetics since they were not translated from the Greek until 1570

when Lodovico Castelvetro published the first translation of the Poetics into Italian

(Wilson and Goldfarb 176) , he certainly could have inferred the dramatic construction Cro 20

described in Aristotle through his study of the Roman comedies, and his own dramatic

works reflect the Roman structure—five acts; a climactic structure; the action taking

place in about twenty-four hours; the lack of a chorus, but the use of a prologue wherein

the author addresses the spectators directly. These elements would later be reflected in the neoclassical ideals put forth by Castelvetro as “rules” rather than “suggestions”. The most common and best known element of neoclassical dramatic theory is the concept of the Unities of Time (the action of the play must not exceed twenty-four hours), Place (the action of the play must be limited to one locale), and Action (there is only one central

story, with a limited number of characters) (Wilson and Goldfarb 177-8). The latter unity

of action describes in essence a climactic plot structure. While Machiavelli takes liberties

with the various “unities”, he is careful to note that the action does take place within the

twenty-four hour period by having Frate Timoteo address the audience at the end of Act

IV:

FRATE. E’ sono intanati in casa, e io me ne andrò al convento. E voi,

spettatori, non ci appuntate: perché questa notte non ci dormirà

persona, sí che gli Atti non sono interrotti dal tempo. (4.10)

This awareness of time is interesting considering Machiavelli precedes Castelvetro’s

dramatic theories by half a century. Moreover, the awareness of the characters of the fact

that there are spectators and that this is indeed a performance is most suggestive of not

only the earlier Roman comedy but perhaps of influence over later playwrights, such as

Luigi Pirandello and his theater trilogy.

The amount of awareness that the author of the Venexiana had of Roman comedy

is uncertain because the identity of the author remains unknown. While it is foreseeable Cro 21

that he (or she) might have been aware of the comedies of Plautus and Terence, the

amount of influence they had on the works is an unknown factor. The erotic element

present in the play is reminiscent of the Roman playwrights, but the structure varies profoundly, even from Machiavelli. Granted, there are five acts, but the action is not limited to a twenty-four hour period, nor is any attempt made to note this deviation from the tradition noted in the play. Moreover, the action of the play moves from various streets to luxurious palazzi to a gondola in the canal. There is definitely no “unity” of place except that it all takes place in Venice. Such deviation is actually quite exciting. It adds to the originality and creativity with which the author is already credited and provides an interesting consideration of the type of performance this play might have received.

As stated above, we cannot be sure exactly of the amount of influence the Roman comedy had over the author of the Venexiana. It seems reasonable to assume that the author was indeed cognizant of the Roman comedies of Terence and Plautus. At this point we turn our attention to another source, the humanistic comedies of the fifteenth century (il Quattrocento), that might well have provided inspiration for our authors.

La commedia umanistica (Humanistic neo-Latin Comedy3)

Leicester Bradner writes of the (neo-) Latin Comedy in his article entitled, “Latin

Drama of the Renaissance”:

In these Latin comedies, written long before there was any comedy in

Italian, we see the development of a realistic satirical technique which the

3 Louise George Clubb uses this term to describe la commedia umanistica in her chapter on Italian Renaissance Theater in The Oxford Illustrated History of Theatre (p. 110). Cro 22

vernacular writers were to take over and use when they began to write

their own comedies in the first decade of the sixteenth century. (33)

Antonio Stäuble further underlines the closeness of the neo-Latin comedies to the commedia erudita of the Cinquecento:

I tentativi degli umanisti non rientrano in una consapevole attività teatrale

nel senso completo del termine, ma si richiamano piuttosto a fonti e

modelli letterari, a ricordi di letture; si tratta quindi essenzialmente di una

“commedia erudita” in senso ancor più esclusivo che nel Cinquecento,

secolo per il quale tale espressione viene generalmente adoperata. (145)

It could be argued that the neo-Latin comedies constitute a link in a chain of literary influence on the comedies of the Cinquecento. The first neo-Latin comedy is thought to be Francesco Petrarca’s Philologia. It seems reasonable to assume the play was written before 1336 as the author discusses it briefly in a letter to Giovanni Colonna di S. Vito supposed to have been written in 1336. If the discussion of the play seems to convey a certain amount of uncertainty, it is not accidental. The manuscript is lost, and all the information we have on it are fragments of lines and references to it in other letters.

Indeed, even the name seems to raise questions. While Stäuble refers to the comedy as

“Philologia,” Bradner seems to prefer “Philostratus”. Regardless of which title one prefers, so little can really be said of it with any degree of certainty that one is forced to concur with Bradner when he states that the earliest Latin comedy is P.P. Vergerius’

Paulus, dated ca. 1390 (33). The majority of the neo-Latin comedies were written in the

Quattrocento. Cro 23

As Stäuble points out, the natural models for the commedia umanistica is the

Roman comedy of Terence and Plautus (145). Knowledge of the Roman comedies expands in the fifteenth century with the rediscovery of the Codice Orsiniano in 1429 containing 12 Plautine comedies including Pseudolus and Miles gloriosus (146). Only

four years later Donato completes his commentary on Terence. Stäuble proposes that this

rediscovery of material might well have provided the impetus for authors of the period to

write comedies of their own, injecting their own new arguments in a classical form: “Le

commedie classiche fornivano il quadro naturale, la forma esteriore entro cui i nuovi

autori si muovevano, anche quando cercavano di fare opera più originale e più conforme

ai loro tempi” (147-8). We can see the birth of this in Roman comedy. David Wiles,

when considering Plautus’ setting, makes an interesting commentary on the originality of the playwright:

The world created on his stage was a utopia that could be Athens at one

moment and Rome the next. The visual references, from costumes to

silver coins, are all Greek, but the language is Roman, and so is the

terminology used to evoke the gods, law, and the political system. This

stage world made a mockery of Greece, but it also made a mockery of

Rome. (50)

However, the authors of the commedia umanistica take it a step further. It is this new

step, this merging of classical structure and language with contemporary setting and

arguments, which forms a natural bridge between the Roman comedy and the

Renaissance comedies of the Cinquecento. Cro 24

The humanistic neo-Latin comedies possess a dualistic nature that may also inherently contribute to the plurality found in the later Renaissance comedies. Stäuble notes the combination of one sole God on one hand and the mention of plural deities on the other; classical mythological figures stand alongside Christian ones (149). Thus, the playwrights take the pagan structural elements (such as form and language) and bring them into the modern world, the Italy of the Quattrocento. This plurality might explain why in the plays in question one finds blatant Christian “immorality” at a time when society was still under the influence of the Catholic Church.

The amorality present in the comedies of the primo Cinquecento might raise questions. From whence does this intense satire arise? It is not unique solely to

Machiavelli. Granted, he may be the most “vicious” in his presentation of Italian society in the sixteenth century, but the author of the anonymous Venexiana revels in the amorality of the protagonists, indeed it is through them that the author makes his or her point. Moreover, Ariosto’s La Lena is not void of immorality—it centers on it. This facet of the Renaissance comedies has root in earlier tradition. Wiles points out in his discussion of the Roman theater that the plays were given in tribute to the Roman gods.

Wiles elucidates: “The Romans saw morality as a matter for state regulation, for their gods were not moral beings but a source of danger and protection. Plautus’ plays, in their joyous amorality, may be understood as instruments of protection. One who laughed at slaves, or senators, or foreign mercenaries, or male cowardice, might subsequently feel protected from those dangers” (51-2).

This “amorality” or “immorality”, depending on one’s point of view, continues in

Humanistic neo-Latin plays of the Quattrocento. Bradner, while describing P.P. Cro 25

Vergerius’ Paulus, indicates that the play claims to teach morality by demonstrating what not to do, and goes on to say that a few other plays allege similar moral purpose, but that as time progresses and the satirical nature of the plays deepens, the claim “has lost all real meaning” (33). Bradner goes on to point out the “bridge” to which I have made reference above4. Granted, this argument is not “air-tight.” One can but propose and clarify what

seems like a logical supposition. It seems logical that Machiavelli would indeed have

been aware of these plays. In an interesting side note, Bradner, when discussing

Hugolinus Pisanus’ Philogenia et Epiphebus (ca. 1440), says “The characters are sharply

and skillfully etched, and the scene in which the cynical priest hears the girl’s confession

is worthy of Machiavelli’s Mandragola” (33). But what of the author of The Venexiana?

Can the same be said of him or her? The answer is unclear. So far as we know, the plays

were not performed in the modern concept of performance. However, Titus Livius

Frulovisius did indeed have some of his plays acted out while he was a schoolmaster in

Venice. He was born ca. 1400 at Ferrara, but his family moved to Venice while he was

still a child (Stäuble 51). According to Bradner, “He wrote seven comedies in Latin

prose, three of which we know were produced in his school in Venice during the year

1432-1433. It is not quite clear whether they were acted in dumb-show with a recitator

reading the lines or whether the actors themselves spoke, but in any case it is clear that

they were acted before an audience” (34). Is it presumptuous to think that the author of

The Venexiana was present for these performances? Yes, it most certainly is. The dates

themselves would seem to contradict such an occurrence. But is it such a stretch to

believe that perhaps these and other neo-Latin comedies, written in prose, were

4 See quote p. 18-19. Cro 26

circulating in Venice during the rest of the fifteenth century and into the early sixteenth century and exercised some influence on our author? Perhaps not.

Boccaccio and the Tradition of the Novella

We have perhaps arrived at one of the most important influences on the

Renaissance comedies of the primo Cinquecento—Boccaccio and his great work, the

Decameron. Much has been said to indicate that the commedia umanistica draws on this tradition (epitomized and defined by Boccaccio): “I rapporti tematici della commedia umanistica con la novellistica sono molto più importanti di quelli con il teatro medioevale, sia per parecchie ben determinate analogie, sia per la maggiore diffusione delle raccolte di novelle ed il loro prestigio letterario” (Stäuble 162). Stäuble continues:

Le commedie del Quattrocento—od almeno alcune di esse---possono

essere considerate tentativi di riprendere in forma teatrale, di trasportare

sulla scena, i temi della novellistica, molti dei quali hanno un latente

carattere drammatico e si prestano quindi ottimamente allo scopo...La

novellistica continuerà a svolgere tale funzione ispiratrice anche rispetto al

teatro del Cinquecento. (162-3)

And hence we have our natural introduction. Boccaccio proved inspirational to the

playwrights of the Cinquecento not only in respect to the characters and settings, but also

as concerns dramatic form, as Nino Borsellino points out in the Introduction to

Commedie del Cinquecento:

Il fatto è che i nostri commediografi vedevano nel gran testo di San

Giovanni Boccadoro—come il Lasca chiamava il Boccaccio—non solo un Cro 27

esemplare repertorio di intrecci e personaggi comici, ma—sia pure

inconsapevolmente—le dimensioni, anche sceniche, di una

rappresentazione teatrale, l’espressione, in nuce, di un teatro laico e

profano. (qtd. in Stäuble 163, note 1)

Let us explore a bit further the concept of the theatricality of Boccaccio’s chef d’oeuvre in reference to the Mandragola and the Venexiana. The essence of the

Boccaccesque narrative is the use of plurality and doubling intrinsically linked to the structure of the Decameron. Ten days with ten stories per day, ten characters in the brigata—it is a stupendous work, carefully crafted. Boccaccio employs three structural levels—that of the characters in the novelle, that of the characters in the brigata who tell the stories, and that of the author himself, visible in the Proemio and as he describes the actions of the members of the Brigata in the Introductions to each day. This construction of level within level is reminiscent of the concept of the “play within the play,” associated most recently with Luigi Pirandello. However, as mentioned before, an awareness of the world as a stage, of the interplay between reality and imagination is already present in the works of the classical authors of Roman comedy and is further explored by the playwrights of the Cinquecento—Machiavelli and the anonymous author of La Venexiana.

The proemio proposes and establishes the cornice, the frame of the work. It is, at the same time, the introduction and the explanation of the plot. Unrequited love is, not only a theme in the Decameron, but reveals itself as the reason behind the choice of reader. Thus Boccaccio confesses that he wrote the Decameron to thank those who consoled him during his “malinconia”, his melancholy, because “o consolazion Cro 28

sopraviene o diventa la noia minore” (Proemio 8.125). The choice of audience is

determined by the fact that for men it seems easier to avoid melancholy from love

sickness and to find the “remedia amoris”—they find diversion in hunting or dedicating

themselves to other activities, out and away from the home—while women, always under

their father’s, brothers’, or husband’s rule, do not have the same liberty. It is from this

“evidence” or “proof” that the structure is derived:

Adunque, acciò che in parte per me s’amendi il peccato della fortuna [alle

donne6], la quale dove meno era di forza, sí come noi nelle dilicate donne

veggiamo, quivi piú avara fu di sostegno, in soccorso e rifugio di quelle

che amano, per ciò che all’altre è assai l’ago e ‘l fuso e l’arcolaio, intendo

di raccontare cento novelle, o favole o parabole o istorie che dire le

vogliamo, raccontate in diece giorni da una onesta brigata di sette donne e

di tre giovani nel pistelenzioso tempo dalla passata mortalità fatta, e

alcune canzonette dalle predette donne cantate al lor diletto. (9.13)

Herein lies the seed of the hierarchy proposed by the author. One can almost picture the

credits rolling at the end of a film. The leading comedian here is Boccaccio, who is also

the director of the drama. Immediately following him are the members of the brigata,

who are authors in their own right because they compose the novelle. However, they are

not only authors—they are also actors on Boccaccio’s stage and must, on the one hand in

their role as actors, obey their director, yet on the other hand they are creative forces of their own as the authors of the various novelle. Each day has a particular theme, proposed by the King or Queen of the brigata, and hence each character has his or her own voice.

5 All references to the Decameron are from Vittore Branca’s edition.

6 See Note 7, p. 8 of Branca’s edition. Cro 29

This doubling or “sdoppiamento” of the characters’ roles leads towards the plurality of

voices introduced in the boccaccesque narrative. They offer the “director”, the grand

“puppeteer” various masks behind which Boccaccio profits from the inherent multiplicity

of the narrative. Who is the true voice of Boccaccio? As said in Italian, “Tutti e nessuno.”

He is at once the author of every novel and, at the same time, a spectator of the work of

his own characters. He identifies himself with the characters/authors, following them in

this cycle of masks that change daily. For example, he abandons the character of

Filostrato the Noble in order to become Filostrato the Narrator:

[I personaggi della brigata] compongono un’onomastica elaborata da

Boccaccio “non senza cagione” (I, Introd., 51): sono evocazioni letterarie

di qualità personali e allusioni autobiografiche con cui lo scrittore rinvia

alla sua precedente esperienza artistica, richiamata appunto da quei nomi.

(Borsellino, 43-4)

When a character becomes the king or queen for the day, it equates to the nomination of

said character as director of the scene for the day, claiming for oneself the authority to

decide the theme for nine of the novelle (since Dioneo reserves the right to chose his own subject for the last novella of each day). Borsellino notes that this dramatic structure is at the root of the brigata: “In questi piani, in queste piagge digradanti ad anfiteatro verso il fondo valle, in questi orti serrate lussureggianti e popolati di animali mansueti si muovono i narratori-attori-spettatori che formano la brigata del Decameron” (43). The world is indeed at play in the Decameron, an idea duly proposed by Giuseppe Mazzotta in his book The World at Play in Boccaccio’s Decameron. Cro 30

A similar situation is that of the playwrights of “our” works, who address the audience and are indeed the directors of the action, but who also speak through the words and actions of each of their characters to further the grand design. Hence, the role of the playwright is inherently plural in its very being, but the awareness of said plurality, of the aforementioned interplay of reality and illusion, is not always present on the part of each character. It is this very consciousness that is in part responsible for the originality and the modernity of these playwrights.

As indicated in the above quote from the proemio, women take center stage as those to whom Boccaccio is writing. While the writers of the Renaissance comedies do not address the plays to women in particular, women do play central roles in both plays, and in both plays there is a prologue in which the frame of the work is set up and explained for the audience:

Iddio vi salvi, benigni auditori,

Quando e’ par che dependa

Questa benignità da lo esser grato.

Se voi seguite di non far romori,

Noi vogliàn che s’intenda

Un nuovo caso in questa terra nato. (Machiavelli 13)

Machiavelli continues to outline the plot, the central problem being that of Callimaco and his “love” for the beautiful Lucrezia. Throughout the prologue he addresses (or rather he has an actor address) the spectators directly (using the pronoun “voi”) and hence both audience and actor are well aware of the finite reality of the stage. There is no grande Cro 31 illusion here as there is in Molière or Racine. A similar call to the spectators is found expressed in prose in the prologus of the Venexiana:

Oggi lo cognoscerete chiaro, o spectatori, quando lo amor smisurato de

una nobile conterranea vostra odirete posto in un forestiero giovenetto; e

la audacia et callidità sua cognoscerete in aver quello; doppoi lo gioco e il

gaudio che de lui se piglia; parimenti lo amor de una altra, pur in quel

medemo già posto, per sospecto de questa exacerbato. Di che, la letizia de

una et il dolor de l’altra conprehendendo, vederete quanto Amor in donna

sii potente e qualmente siàn venti da soa forza. (9)

Hence the reader/spectator is clearly defined and addressed in the proemio or prologus of the work, and the frame of the work is thus established. A grand narrator is present who will oversee the inner workings of the drama and the characters. However, these characters are not necessarily oblivious to the grand design. The characters in the

Mandragola are aware of the fact that they are part of a spectacle. For example, Frate

Timoteo addresses the audience at the end of Act IV:

FRATE. E’ sono intanati in casa, e io me ne andrò al convento. E voi,

spettatori, non ci appuntate: perché questa notte non ci dormirà

persona, sí che gli Atti non sono interrotti dal tempo. (4.10)

The members of the brigata, however, are not cognizant of the grand puppeteer who is pulling the strings. In the case of the Venexiana, while the characters do not demonstrate an awareness of the actual spectators, they are aware of the possibility of being seen during their illicit love affairs, and the utmost discretion is required (see for Cro 32

example, Bernardo and Nena’s exchange in Act III, scene 4 [p. 57] and Bernardo’s

repeated warnings in scene 6 [p. 61]).

Returning to the focus placed on women in the Decameron (not only is the work dedicated to women but seven out of ten members of the brigata are women, and almost every novella involves women, often as objects of either love or lust), we see that the

Mandragola and the Venexiana center on women and depend on the female characters to provide the impetus for the climactic arch.

Even the novelle of the Decameron obey a hierarchy structured according to a theatrical standard or criterion (similar to the scenes of a play). A good example is found in the first novella of the first day, the story of Ser Ciappelletto, told by Panfilo. Panfilo states of Ser Ciappelletto that “egli era il piggiore uomo forse che mai nascesse” (1.1.15

[p. 54]). Musciatto Franzesi, a moneylender who wants to recover with interest the money he loaned to the “borgognoni”, “uomini pieni d’inganni”, sends Ser Ciappelletto as his agent, convinced that Ciappelletto’s renowned wickedness is exactly what is needed. But, while he is staying with two moneylenders (brothers who are Florentine), who are also agents of Musciatto, Ser Ciappelletto falls gravely ill and is on his deathbed.

Already preoccupied with the hostility of their French debtors, the two brothers fear that the imminent death of Ciappelletto will further infuriate the French, who would take his sinful life as a pretext to refuse to pay their debts and, moreover, to rob the usurers and perhaps even kill them, imagining that the French think, “ ‘Questi Lombardi cani, li quali a chiesa non sono volute ricevere, non ci si voglion piú sostenere’; e correrannoci alle case e per avventura non solamente l’avere ci ruberanno ma forse ci torranno oltre a ciò le persone: di che noi in ogni guisa stiam male se costui muore” (1.1.26 [p. 57]). Cro 33

In a highly theatrical scene, the brothers lament their position while Ciappelletto

listens to their dialogue through the dividing wall and afterwards calls them to his bedside, assuring them that all will be well if they follow his fantastic proposition. He asks them to find the most “santo e valente frate” (1.1.29 [p.57]) so that he may confess and if they do all that he asks, “acconcerò i fatti vostri e miei in maniera che starà bene e che dovrete esser contenti” (1.1.29 [p. 57]). After doing as he bids them, Ciappelletto then makes his famous confession, listened to and lauded by an abbot and overheard by the two brothers who witness Ciappelletto’s performance from their hiding place. Herein there is a role reversal; Ciappelletto was before the spectator (unseen) to their performance---now they are the unseen spectators to his performance. The entire scene is not only profoundly comical but intensely theatrical. The technique exemplified in this episode is rightly evaluated by Massarese: “Ma dove il modello dell’artificio retorico, capace di imbonire ed ipnotizzare l’uditorio, viene adoperato nella consapevolezza dell’uso di un linguaggio performativo che richiede chiare componenti cinesiche, è, naturalmente, nella sequenza della confessione” (30).

At this point Ciappelletto has become the author, and the confession, the central scene of the drama, instigates a series of events that, spiraling, involve as much the protagonists as it does the community, up until the final scene of the procession in the cathedral with the public singing praises to his (Ciappelletto’s) saintliness and, at the tale’s conclusion, the moral speculations of divine Providence that guarantees indulgence and miracles to the sincerely faithful, quite apart from the dignity or intrinsic sanctity, imagined or real, of Ciappelletto. Dramatic plurality is exalted in this novella: from

Boccaccio who introduces the narrator Panfilo who, in his own turn, presents the Cro 34

principal character, Ser Ciappelletto, who becomes author and character in search of his own author, as Pirandello would say.

The next question is how to define the audience of this “scene”? Boccaccio’s characters are narrators and spectators and one character, Ser Ciappelletto, becomes his own author. At the beginning of each new novella there is a commentary of the preceding tale and, at the beginning of the second novella of the first day the brigata reacts to

Panfilo’s tale: “la novella di Panfilo fu in parte risa e tutta commendata dale donne…”

(1.2.2 [p. 71]). The Decameron offers a vast sampling that suggests a dramatic sensibility.

Just as one can see the dramatic aspects of the Decameron that might well have inspired the playwrights of the plays in question, one can see the novelistic aspects of the plays. Scholars are tempted to label the Mandragola, for example, “less theatrical” due in large part to the fact that the “real” action, i.e. the physical enactment, is not seen on stage but rather is told in a narrative monologue after the fact7. However, perhaps the

source for this habit of narrating the action comes not only from the Roman tradition but

is reinforced and underlined by the novelistic tradition.

Clubb affirms the importance of the Decameron for Machiavelli’s dramatic writing:

His [Machiavelli’s] La Mandragola (The Mandrake) was considered a

masterpiece from the time of its first appearance about 1518. Machiavelli

had honed his stagecraft by translating Terence’s Andria and now he

7 See Fido, p. 102 and Bradner, p. 32

Cro 35

welded narrative elements from the Decameron into a dramatic tour de

force of adultery triumphant. (112)

Turning from the larger similarities at the structural level, one may see that Boccaccio provides a source for characters and plots as well, as Borsellino points out8. Fido notes that, “in Machiavelli…l’imitazione del Boccaccio—e la deviazione dal Boccaccio— avviene soprattutto sul piano dei personaggi” (100). As we can see from our look at the first novella of the first day, Ser Ciappelletto changes as it suits him in order to best

capitalize on a given situation. This mercurial aspect of the character is reminiscent of

Machiavelli’s Ligurio who changes allegiances depending on what suits him best (and what is most profitable for him). Fido points out this similarity: “... prendiamo Ligurio, il personaggio—come tutti hanno osservato—più machiavellico della commedia, che pur ci ricorda, per il compiacimento con cui annoda i fili della sua trama, Ser Ciappelletto da un lato, gli allegri pittori fiorentini dell’Ottava e della Nona giornata del Decameron dall’altro” (101).

Let us consider the two definitive aspects of the Boccaccesque narrative, in my

opinion the duality and the plurality, as they relate to the Mandragola and the Venexiana.

a. The Duality in the Mandragola

CALLIMACO. A me non fia mai discaro fare piacere a voi ed a tutti li

uomini virtuosi e da bene come voi; e non mi sono a Parigi affaticato

tanti anni per imparare per altro, se non per potere servire a’ pari

vostri. (1.2)

Callimaco is speaking with Nicia, the husband of the beautiful Lucrezia, the

object of his affection. Callimaco pretends to be a doctor in order to fool Nicia. But his

8 see quote p. 23 Cro 36 words have another intention—they indicate his willingness to “serve” Nicia’s wife. It is thus that the inherent duality in the plot of the Mandragola is revealed to the reader / spectator.

This scene introduces the spectators to Callimaco, a handsome young man who has come from Paris to Florence in order to view the beauty of Lucrezia: “Dove arrivato, ho trovato la fama di Madonna Lucrezia essere minore assai che la verità, il che occorre rarissime volte, e sommi acceso in tanto desiderio d’esser seco, che io non truovo loco”

(1.1). Hence he decides to rely upon Ligurio, a “friend” of Nicia and a “gabbamondo” who likes to fool Nicia for the simple pleasure of fooling him and in order to “earn” a

“buona soma di danari” (1.1) promised him by Callimaco.

The elusive socio-historical importance of this comedy is found in the character of

Lucrezia who, from the beginning, acquires an emblematic role. Key concepts converge in her person, expressed in words such as “onestissima” and “in modo che non c’è luogo ad alcuna corruzione” (1.1). The dramatic tension is centered on the very attempt to corrupt this beautiful, incorruptible woman. It is a desperate and difficult scheme, but

Callimaco, who learned to live in Paris, is not easily discouraged.

There is an inherent dualism in Machiavelli’s characters. The duality of the human being is demonstrated by the “teatro dell’illusione.” In the fourth act, the men hide their true identities (and motives) behind masks and in costume. Prior to this point, the masks are imagined, but in Act IV the characters don true disguises and bring to fruition their scheme. These “games of appearance” begin in the dialogue between Callimaco and

Ligurio, during which the “beffa” takes shape: Cro 37

LIGURIO. Noi abbiamo tutti a travestirci. Io farò travestire el frate:

contrafarà la voce, el viso, l’abito; e dirò al dottore che tu sia quello; e’

se ‘l crederrà.

CALLIMACO. Piacemi, ma io che farò?

LIGURIO. Fo conto che tu ti metta un pitocchino adosso, e con un liuto in

mano te ne venga costì, dal canto della sua casa, cantando un

canzoncino.

CALLIMACO. A viso scoperto?

LIGURIO. Sì, ché se tu portassi una maschera, e’ gli enterrebbe sospetto.

CALLIMACO. E’ mi conoscerà.

LIGURIO. Non farà, perché io voglio che tu ti storca el viso, che tu apra,

aguzzi o digrigni la bocca chiugga un occhio. Pruova un poco. (4.2)

Callimaco makes various (humorous) attempts and finally succeeds in finding the right mask—semi-real, semi-illusion. What is important is to hide their true intentions from

Messer Nicia, and in order to do this we, the spectators, notice that the characters hide their true identities during the course of the play. Frate Timoteo disguises himself in order to get the money offered to him by Callimaco and Ligurio and thus temporarily abandons his profession for the sake of profit. Callimaco disguises himself so that he might fool Messer Nicia and Lucrezia until he succeeds in winning the love of his beloved. The only person who makes no attempt to hide his intentions is Messer Nicia, and Machiavelli makes of him the ninny, the dupe. For Machiavelli, the man (or the woman) without the ability to manipulate illusions and to profit from fortune, and, above all else, to change, is a fool. Cro 38

This capacity for change, the ability to transform oneself, is exemplified in

Lucrezia, the beloved, she who, although she remains pious throughout the majority of the comedy, in the end changes her personality and is able to profit from the situation.

This central wisdom is not a question of absolute values, but rather of reality transformed by illusions. Thus, we find the same principles in the drama that Machiavelli examines in his political treatise, Il Principe. One can even see that Ligurio prefigures the prince. He

is neither a victim of his longings nor conditioned by his desire, but rather he is ruled by

the inherent necessity of the situation.

Lorch notes the duality inherent in Lucrezia’s character. While examining the role

of women in the Mandragola and their role in creating laughter, she points out a dualistic

aspect of Lucrezia: “…Lucrezia in the combination of ideal and real—what the others

think of her and what she actually is…” (254). She drives this point home again later,

“We also laugh at Lucrezia, not at her final ‘conversion’ but at the image the other actors

give of her, the contrast between what she is supposed to be and what she actually is”

(258). This amalgamation of the ideal and the real recalls the interplay of reality and

illusion present in the play. Several fundamental points of duality are readily observable

in Lucrezia, such as the consequence of Nicia’s ambition to become a father and to have

an heir, as Callimaco explains to Siro: “…la voglia che lui e lei hanno di avere figliuoli,

che, sendo stata sei anni a marito e non avendo ancora fatti, ne hanno, sendo ricchissimi,

un desiderio che muoiono” (1.1). This blind will of Messer Nicia provokes the unwanted

transformation that finishes by making of Lucrezia an adulteress. The spectator finds

himself at a crossroad: on one hand, the religious and social duty to procreate and, on the

other hand, the condemnation of social convention. Thus the duality of the structure and Cro 39

the duality of the plot become a formal duality by which the comedy assumes the role of

social critic.

This role of social critic is not limited solely to social classes, but extends to

institutions such as the Church and various professions, like lawyers and doctors.

Machiavelli seems to anticipate the Shakespearean and Calderonian principle of the

world as a theater9. One of Calderon’s works is entitled El gran teatro del mundo. Even his most famous drama, La vida es sueño, offers a supreme example of doubling of the

scene and of life in which reality and illusion are contrasted.

In fact, the other characters who are party to Lucrezia’s transformation represent

different social strata: Fra Timoteo, Ligurio, Sostrata (Lucrezia’s mother) and the masks

they wear in Act IV. Machiavelli’s commedia erudita (erudite comedy) becomes

uncoupled with these last ones, permitting in the interior of the structure a popular

dramatic form that, at a certain point, like the Commedia dell’Arte, assumes a creative

autonomy constituting an ulterior doubling that permits the “capocomici” and the authors

to improvise. This “beffa” inserted in the erudite comedy constitutes another vision of the

play within the play.

As Matthes points out:

…the seemingly happy resolution of Machiavelli’s comedy conceals

narrative duplicity. In the end, the course of events as perceived by some

of the dramatic characters is not the real course of events as understood by

the audience…The audience and several of the stage characters share the

knowledge of a secret kept from other members of the play’s society: all

has not been revealed at the end (248).

9 See the quote from Shakespeare’s As You Like It on p. 1 in the Introduction. Cro 40

Thus we return to our first point, that Lucrezia is the center of a complex dramatic

tension. In the situation in which she finds herself, that of wife, future mother, and

faithful lover, her character offers a confirmation of the maxim of “the ends justify the

means”10. Naturally, one asks oneself if the author wanted to reaffirm in Lucrezia his most circulated doctrine. Each reader / spectator will have to decide according to their own values. It is this liberty and plurality of interpretation that confirms the very theme of duality in the Mandragola, a duality to which even the readers / spectators become complicit.

b. Plurality in La Venexiana

When considering the Venexiana, it is perhaps plurality that best describes the

work. The setting itself is steeped in the plurality of the work. Granted, it all takes place in Venice, but there is a richness in this because the author does not confine him or herself to merely a palazzo in Venice. On the contrary, the action jumps from street corners to rooms in different palazzi to a gondola in the canal. The imagination of the

author endows the work with a multitude of settings, all dictated by the action in the text.

In her article, “La Venexiana: Amorous Seduction and the Art of ‘Experimentar,’”

Carù offers some profound thoughts on the multiplicity of the voices within the work.

She examines the nature of seduction and the “game” that seems to be playing out

between the two female protagonists, Valeria and Angela, by means of Iulio:

It is the joined playing of Angela and Valeria through Iulio, a game where

the rules of incompleteness and participation are fulfilled twice by the two

10 Although Machiavelli did not utter this principle, it has been considered Machiavellic in Italian popular tradition. Cro 41

women: with Iulio and between each other. By playing ‘against’ each

other, they actually play together, they are each the measure of the other’s

actions. They are two speakers in a dialogue which is carried out

constantly, although indirectly, by veiled questions to Iulio, by the request

of a love promise, the present of a love token (Angela), the open jealousy

against an enemy in love (Valeria). In this way, the voices multiply, split,

merge, refract, and it is this multiplicity of voices which constitutes the

basis of La Venexiana. (101-102)

This concept of the multiplicity of voices reflects a similar concept in the Decameron

Boccaccio’s narrative choices—the use of a brigata to tell the stories—provides an inherent multiplicity in terms of the viewpoints one might have on a particular subject or theme (as is evident in the work). Carù’s further elucidation on the multiplicity of voices within the Venexiana could apply equally to Boccaccio’s Decameron:

The multiplicity of voices creates an intense interplay in a text which

could otherwise be extremely limited in its characters, six voices—four

women, two men—to reproduce a whole city and its atmosphere: ‘ceto

borghese ormai affrancato dalle angustie della necessità economica che

può permettersi di impiegare la propria disponibilità esistenziale nella

dissipazioni della…curiosità dell’esercizio sessuale (Zorzi 115). (102)

Referring to Zorzi’s “Scheda”, one sees that this scholar readily identifies Boccaccio as an important source for the playwrights of the Cinquecento:

Il valore documentario, oltre che i caratteri rappresentativi e teatrali

presenti nel Decameron, è l’aspetto che legava programmaticamente al Cro 42

Boccaccio i commediografi cinquecenteschi; (…) —la piú ricca e varia

registrazione dei costumi e delle passioni quotidiane, di quel mondo

borghese e cittadinesco che essi si proponevano di riflettere sulla scena.

(111)

Much as the playwright of the Venexiana strives to symbolize an entire city (Venice) through the actions of his characters, and just as Machiavelli offers a bitingly satirical view of Italian society in his own work, Boccaccio weaves a multiple view of Italian (in particular Florentine) society of the time period through the voices of his brigata—seven women and three men. It is interesting to note that seventy percent of his view is female.

Of course, the most obvious aspect to which both the Mandragola and the

Venexiana owe a debt to Boccaccio’s Decameron is in the use of the “volgare” or of the

“spoken” language—Italian rather than Latin, as was used in the Roman comedies and the humanistic comedies. Further discussion of the language has been reserved for the next chapter wherein similarities between the two texts are discussed at length, including the choice of language.

Other sources

There are, of course, other possible sources for both works, however, for the purposes of this study, I have chosen to focus on the influences of Roman theater,

Boccaccio, and the neo-Latin humanistic comedies because they are common sources to both plays and I am interested in comparing the two works. Other scholars have already dealt with questions of sources such as Livy’s telling of The Rape of Lucretia for the Cro 43

Mandragola11 or Bandello’s Novelle and Masuccio Salernitano’s Il novellino for the

Venexiana12. In this section I will briefly deal with two of these possible sources for our playwrights, Livy for Machiavelli and Bandello for the author of the Venexiana.

It has been proposed that Machiavelli’s Lucrezia and Livy’s own “character”

share more than solely a name. Ronald L. Martinez first proposes this similarity as the

basis for a “systematic view of the play” in his article, “Roman Lucretia in Mandragola,”

citing de Sanctis as a primary source: “La tragedia romana si trasforma nelle[a]

commedia fiorentina” (34):

…the consideration of Livy’s text in conjunction with Machiavelli’s

addresses the principal critical problems…; for the political result of the

suicide in Livy’s history plants for the critic the question of the political

domain of Machiavelli’s own text, while the somber events of Lucretia’s

death extend a dark background for the ribaldry and humor of

Machiavelli’s play. (34)

Martinez goes through a very lengthy discussion of similarities (some of which seem a bit

far-fetched) and closes with a rather extraordinary claim:

One of the funniest plays ever written, Mandragola holds at its heart an

etiological fable of the defection of ancient virtue and the failure of a free

republic. The tale of Lucretia, for Machiavelli the inception of a utopian

ideal of civic virtue, gives the measure that permits Mandragola to be

grasped as the etiology of dystopia. (73)

11 See Ronald Martinez’s article, “The Pharmacy of Machiavelli: Roman Lucretia in Mandragola” (1982).

12 See Alonge’s article, “Crisi delle strutture e struttura della crisi nella Venexiana” pp. 234 and 237 respectively. Cro 44

While Martinez is positive of the similarities between the two works, Matthes is more reserved in her judgment:

…while the content of the comedy is ostensibly a reinterpretation of

Livy’s tragic rendition of the story of the rape of Lucretia…Machiavelli’s

sense of humor—laughter generated by human ingenuity rather than the

marvelous, his enjoyment of narrative duplicity rather than happy

endings—illuminates as much about his serious political argument as his

reconfiguration of the story itself (250).

While it is reasonable to presume that Livy’s account of the “Rape of Lucretia” did have an influence on Machiavelli’s composition of the Mandragola, I am hesitant to delve too deeply into this interpretation. For my purposes, suffice it to say that the naming of his protagonist was inspired by the Roman model, but perhaps as a symbol of the patria rather than an overt analogy to her Roman predecessor.

It is important to remember that Machiavelli himself wrote on Livy, and hence linking the two works is indeed plausible (although the degree to which they are correlating is not concrete). While we have the luxury of knowing the author of the

Mandragola and his other literary works and influences, we are not so fortunate with the

Venexiana. However, scholars have indicated the possibility that the novella tradition is a source of influence for the playwright. Despite possible questions of dating, Zorzi suggests that there are a number of similarities between Bandello’s novella XXV, part 4, and Iulio’s first “adventure” with Angela (104-105): “Particolarità di passaggi e di atteggiamenti psicologici, di ambientazione, di scrittura sembrano scoprire altre Cro 45

sorprendenti analogie: circola nella novella la stessa atmosfera misteriosa e sensuale che

avvolge i primi tre atti di questa commedia” (104).

What is important about this possible influence, more than the similarities in

content (discussed in Zorzi), is the fact that this is again an indication of the importance and influence of the novelistic tradition on the dramatic works of the playwrights of the

Cinquecento. It underscores again the importance of Boccaccio as a source common to

both authors.

Cro 46

CHAPTER 3:

MANIPULATION: THE LANGUAGE OF LOVE

The primo Cinquecento gave birth to two superb Renaissance comedies, the

Mandragola and the Venexiana. The author of the former is one of the most celebrated

(and infamous) intellectuals of the Renaissance, indeed of all time, his name echoed both derisively and deferentially in halls of learning and lawmaking alike throughout the centuries. The author of the latter is unknown, a mystery that no one has yet solved conclusively, although some have proposed plausible identities. The former was written near Florence, the latter in Venice (at least, this is the assumption that most scholars make, and so I am following the tradition; indeed, most scholars do not address the possibility that it was written elsewhere). Two comedies that, on the surface, one would assume to be vastly different, share a number of similarities, and it is the focus of this chapter to examine both the similarities and differences of these two works.

When examining these plays, one is actually surprised by the resemblance between the two works. Here are two comedies written by two different authors in two different cities but with a number of similarities. Each one is set in an urban “milieu”.

Both authors chose to use the spoken language (not only the standard, but the dialect).

They wrote in prose, not in lyric or poetic form (with the exception of the introductory song and entr’acte interludes in verse found in the Mandragola). The structures too are comparable—both are composed of five acts, centered on the love affairs of men and women with particular attention paid to the role of women in the great game of love.

Moreover, the love spoken of in these plays is not the noble love sung by the great poets Cro 47

of the dolce stil nuovo in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries or by Francesco Petrarca in the Trecento (fourteenth century). On the contrary, the love is a sensual love, and one doubts one’s ability to define it conclusively as love. Rather, it seems more to be the love of sensuality. The “love” echoing through these comedies is lascivious, carnal. At the core of the human universe (as depicted in these “comedies”) is the erotic.

Of further interest is the nature of comedy in the plays. Manipulation is the overarching tendency from which the comedy is born. Certain characters (interpreted as either stronger or more lustful and victim to their amorous desires) manipulate other characters (either weaker or willing participants in the game) and the result is often unexpected. The duality and plurality of the characters (as discussed in Chapter 2) further contributes to this manipulation. For example, Callimaco’s identity is in question along with the other characters in the scena beffa of Act IV. This “game of masks” permits the manipulation of Nicia and, to a certain extent, Lucrezia as well. Even in the Venexiana

mystery surrounds the identity of Angela and further contributes to the manipulation by

Iulio and Valeria of each other.

Finally, let us turn to the “happy” ending. In the classical concept of comedy, the understanding is that the ending is happy—hence what makes it a comedy. However, the endings of these two plays, supposedly happy endings, leave the reader or spectator with a bitter taste in his or her mouth, and an obvious question seems to jump to one’s lips—

“Is this really a happy ending?” Perhaps that is what the authors themselves are asking us.

While the Roman comedy of Plautus and Terence was set in Ancient Greece to avoid the possibility of the Roman censure (Wiles 50), the playwrights of the sixteenth century comedies chose to represent their reality without disguises: they chose to present Cro 48

the Italian city, with characters and situations bred from daily life. The two comedies that

I have chosen as models in this study, the anonymous Venexiana and Machiavelli’s

Mandragola, are set in Venice and Florence, respectively. This logistical fact in and of

itself constitutes the novelty of various points of view. Firstly, it reveals the maturity of

the spectators who are able to laugh at themselves and their own weaknesses. Secondly, it

opens the Italian scene to an urban style or diction, to the “vulgar” or “spoken” language.

The “spoken” language is used as a means of extolling the comicality of a character like

Bernardo in the Venexiana, and as a means of distinguishing the different social classes

that move liberally throughout the urban fabric, including the rural classes of the peasants

that present themselves in the setting of the Renaissance Comedy. We will have the

chance to treat with greater attention the fundamental role of the language in the

realization of the Renaissance theater.

When examining a work, one must inevitably address the linguistic situation of

the work—particularly in Italy where la questione della lingua has resonated throughout

her literature throughout time. Let us examine the Mandragola first, with particular

interest in Machiavelli’s own linguistic treatise, Discorso intorno alla nostra lingua.

Linguistic plurality in the Mandragola and the Venexiana

Machiavelli broaches the subject of illusion through the dialogo beffa in act IV

(found in Chapter 2 under the section entitled “Duality in the Mandragola”) that provides

the opportunity for the characters to explore the action through another’s mask. They

prepare to experience physically what they have already been doing, that is the “role- playing” that is necessary in order to win over the object of Callimaco’s desire, Lucrezia. Cro 49

Not all the characters take part in this role-play—indeed it is in order to fool Nicia,

Lucrezia’s husband, an older man and, what’s worse in Machiavelli’s view (as indicated by his characterization of Nicia), a lawyer, that the role-play is deemed necessary.

Elaborate charades run throughout the action of the play as various characters take turns

wearing different masks, both figurative and literal. It is through this inherent plurality in

the drama that Machiavelli unveils his subject matter, what has often been considered a

dramatic interpretation and continuation of his political theories set forth in Il Principe.

Bonino points out that the Mandragola “ci appare come una prosecuzione del Principe”

(5) but is careful to indicate the difference: “La Mandragola è insomma un Principe

dimidiato: obbedisce alle stesse leggi morali, ma non conosce il beneficio

dell’alternativa, e non ne possiede il fascino chiaroscurale” (5). He is quick to emphasize,

however, that the play does not represent a low point in Machiavelli’s moral judgment;

rather:

... essa testimonia semmai una fase di piú ferma riflessione, il limite

estremo forse del particolare ‘pessimismo’ del Machiavelli. Proprio

l’istante della scoperta del comico, l’ammissione della sua necessità,

magari soltanto all’interno del ‘genere’... coincidono nel Machiavelli col

disincanto radicale. (5)

While one may certainly see the parallels between the two works, it is important not to

get carried away. As Ruffo-Fiore points out, “…the play juxtaposes the real world—how

people actually live—with an implied ideal vision—how people ought to live in a world

in which everything has its proper order and degree…A new hierarchical order with

recategorized priorities is created out of the subversion and debasement of the old” (115). Cro 50

I propose that this plurality, inherent in the subject matter of the play itself, can be seen

on another level—the linguistic level—and that through this linguistic plurality the author

furthers his own purposes of social commentary.

The exploration of the linguistic elements of Mandragola is not limited— however, it is a bit specialized. When it comes to a consideration of the technical linguistic elements of the play, one is indeed hard-pressed to find an article. Detailed examinations of the concept of linguistic plurality are also rather difficult to come by.

The discussions I have found of language and Mandragola are predominantly in the form

of brief sections in either the introduction to the text (as is the case for Bonino’s superb examination of the linguistic and socio-thematic considerations in the “Nota introduttiva” to the Mandragola) or in a chapter discussing Machiavelli’s dramatic works. Of interest is Ruffo-Fiore’s, albeit brief, discussion of the language of the various characters and of the overall work in her book entitled simply Niccolò Machiavelli. In the sixth chapter she discusses Machiavelli’s “Dramatic and Literary Art” and provides a brief overview of

Mandragola including a discussion of possible dates for its composition and a dramatic analysis which centers on the use of rhetoric. Another source is, as alluded to above, the introduction to Haywood’s edition of the text. Of particular interest from a linguistic point of view is his section entitled, “A Word about Machiavelli’s Language in

Mandragola” (51) wherein he provides some explanation of Machiavelli’s language and a list of examples. Of particular interest to this study is to consider Machiavelli’s own linguistic awareness, as made evident in his treatise Discorso intorno alla nostra lingua

(1514-1516), and the influence of said awareness on the plurality of the drama. Cro 51

Machiavelli demonstrates his own awareness of the questione della lingua in his

Discorso intorno alla nostra lingua, written probably in 1514 (according to Stozzi’s introduction to the work) although Stozzi indicates there is much debate over the date, some authorities putting it as late as 1524-25 (xxxiv-vi). Within this brief “letter” (he is addressing another throughout the work), Machiavelli seeks to define standard Italian versus dialect and we find that his definitions are interdependent; first:

Parlare commune d’Italia sarebbe quello dove fussi piú del commune che

del proprio d’alcuna lingua; e similmente parlar proprio fia quello dove è

piú del proprio che di alcuna altra lingua; perché non si può trovare una

lingua che parli ogni cosa per sé senza avere accattato da altri... (7-14

[p.11]) and again:

…quella lingua si può chiamar comune in una provincia, dove la maggior

parte de’ suoi vocaboli con le loro circonstanze non si usino in alcuna

lingua propria di

quella provincia; e quella lingua si chiamerà propria dove la maggior parte

de’ suoi vocaboli non s’usino in altra lingua di quella provincia. (10-18 [p.

13])

Machiavelli provides the modern reader with his own definitions of language and dialect, and throughout the dialogue stresses the universality of the Florentine tongue, the importance of this tongue as a sort of common language but one that is identifiably

Florentine. He goes so far as to include a dialogue between himself and Dante, citing examples from Dante’s Divina Commedia and forcing the latter to agree that he did Cro 52

indeed use the Florentine dialect, not a common language to all of Italy as Dante puts forth in his De vulgari eloquentia. Machiavelli discusses the concept of an isogloss and

of borrowing long before these terms were actually coined. He identifies five provinces

of linguistic divergence in Italy: Lombardy, Romagna, Tuscany, Rome, and the Kingdom

of Naples. The author then broaches the concept of language contact and discusses the

concept of borrowing with relation to his definition of a standard: the standard being the language that can borrow from others and make the borrowed words its own.

Of particular importance is Machiavelli’s discussion of the language of comedies:

Dico ancora come si scrivano molte cose che senza scrivere i motti e i

termini

proprii patrii non sono belle. Di questa sorte sono le commedie; perché

ancora che il fine d’una commedia sia proporre uno specchio d’una vita

privata, nondimeno il suo modo del farlo è con certa urbanità e termini che

muovino riso, acciò che gli uomini, correndo a quella delettazione, gustino

poi l’exemplo utile che vi è sotto. (20-32 [p. 22])

Thus he emphasizes the need for urbanità, for the use of the spoken language in order to create true comedy, not only to create it for reasons of entertainment but for pedagogical purposes as well. Further, he is emphasizing that humor is best expressed in the language that is common and spoken by all on a daily basis because comedies revolve around the daily life, the home. Comedy (for Machiavelli) portrays the mundane and common while highlighting or underlining the failings or weaknesses of the system or manner in which one lives. He again emphasizes the importance of the common, spoken language in comedies: Cro 53

Ma perché le cose sono trattate ridiculamente, conviene usare termini e

motti che faccino questi effetti; i quali termini, se non sono proprii e

patrii, dove sieno soli interi e noti, non muovono né posson muovere

(41-47 [p. 22]).

In making this point, Machiavelli pushes for the need to use the Tuscan, because another

dialect “non farà mai questa parte bene” (48-9 [p.23]). Keeping in mind Machiavelli’s

linguistic awareness and opinions, it would be short-sighted on the part of the reader not

to take this into account when reading his comedy, Mandragola. It seems inevitable that there would be a linguistic influence on his dramatic work.

Machiavelli defines the purpose of comedy quite clearly in the Prologue to

another of his dramatic works, Clizia: “Comedies were discovered in order to benefit and

to delight the spectators” (5). Whether or not we are to believe the playwright when he

asserts entertainment as the primary purpose of a comedy is a subject for later discussion.

As Ruffo-Fiore points out, referring again to Clizia, “Language, which reflects character,

is what provokes laughter and it must be stupid, sarcastic, or amorous, projecting

characters who are foolish, malicious, or in love.” In returning to the discussion of

Mandragola, Ruffo-Fiore continues, “The characters and plot acquire their comedic effect through the mask of a highly expressive Florentine dialect. They are rendered laughable by their language, not by their nature, which if projected through a different language might make them pathetic or tragic” (113). Hence there is not only a duality of purpose in the characters of the Mandragola, there is also an inherent duality between their “real” self and the language by which they express themselves. This remark can be further supported by the fact that much of the “action” of the play occurs off-stage and is Cro 54

recounted to the audience by the various characters. Thus the language becomes of

central importance.

Machiavelli makes use of a number of different styles and languages in order to

further his aims. Haywood offers perhaps the best definition of Machiavelli’s language:

…not only is Machiavelli’s Italian shot through with the Florentine

vernacular of his day, it is also the product of a time when linguistic

conventions and norms (concerning not just grammar, syntax and lexis,

but also orthography) were still in the process of being established, and

therefore there was as yet no such thing as standard Italian as we

understand it. (51)

Machiavelli himself establishes his belief in the universality of the Florentine in his

Discorso. We see further distinction of the characters on the basis of their style of speech

(ranging from poetic to crude). In addition to the varying use of Florentine vernacular,

Machiavelli also inserts some Latin. The character of most interest linguistically,

perhaps, is Callimaco, the young lover and central figure of importance.

Ruffo-Fiore outlines three thematic trends reflected in Callimaco’s language: “(1)

the political maxims associated with Machiavelli’s other writings (I,1); (2) the humanist

concern for the elegance of Latin syntax (II, 2); and (3) the conventional

Petrarchan/courtly expression of love (IV, 1, 2, 4)” (114). While it is possible that there is a humanist concern for the “elegance” of Latin syntax, one must point out that when

Callimaco uses Latin, his subject matter is not that of the great orators—rather, it is crude, vulgar, a point that will be discussed later. The author then goes on to discuss Cro 55

these thematic trends, however it is through the linguistic characteristics that these

thematic trends can be considered, so this will be the primary concern of this discussion.

Machiavelli inserts lines in Latin in his comedy, and one is forced to ask “why”.

In Act II, 2 and 6, Latin is used by two characters, Messer Nicia and Callimaco. Latin is

used only once on the part of Nicia: “Bona dies, domine magister,” in order to greet

Callimaco, the “doctor”, who responds quickly with “Et vobis bona, domine doctor”.

Latin is used a means of duping the lawyer. Latin was not understood by many at this time outside the halls of academia and justice. The irony of the use of Latin in the

Mandragola is that Callimaco might not be a scholar, but by pronouncing the Latin he convinces Nicia that he is a scholar: Nicia is immediately convinced of Callimaco’s ability as a doctor—the lawyer might well understand all that he is being told, but he cannot recognize nonsense when he hears it, indicating a certain feebleness and stupidity on the part of Nicia.

The other two examples of Latin come in the form of Callimaco giving false or bogus medical explanations to Nicia. The first comes in scene 2:

CALLIMACO. Egli è la verità; ma, a volere adempiere el desiderio

vostro, perché le possono essere più cagione; nam causae sterilitatis

sunt: aut in semine, aut in matrice, aut in instrumentis seminariis, aut

in virga, aut in causa extrinseca.

The second is in scene 6:

CALLIMACO. Non ve ne maravigliate. Nam mulieris urinae sunt semper

maioris grossitie et albedinis et minoris pulchritudinis quam virorum. Cro 56

Huis autem, inter caetera, causa est amplitudo canalium, mixtio eorum

quae ex matrice exeunt cum urinis.

The above are the only instances of Latin in the play. What is interesting is that

Latin is used not, as one would assume, by the character of the friar, Fra’ Timoteo, but by

Callimaco, the young lover who is most certainly neither a lawyer nor a doctor. Even

Nicia’s use of Latin is very limited. Whether he understands it completely is a point for

speculation and interpretation. Upon hearing the second “medical” explanation he replies,

“Oh! uh! potta di san Puccio! Costui mi raffinisce in tralle mani; guarda come ragiona

bene di queste cose!” His own coarseness indicates that had he understood the explanation he would been neither surprised nor shocked. No translation of the Latin

verses would have been given to the audience, so the question begs: would the spectators

have understood? Is it perhaps this very point that Machiavelli wishes to make? To

answer these questions, one must decide who the spectators are. If it were performed

solely for the intellectuals of the era, it is safe to assume that the meaning would be

understandable and hence the duping of the doctor would have been the central point of

interest for the author. However, were intellectuals the only people who viewed the play

during Machiavelli’s time? Moreover, who was the play’s intended audience—that is, to

whom is Machiavelli writing? If he envisioned a mixed group of scholars and uneducated spectators, then his choice of Latin is provocative. It might have been meant to exemplify more than the manipulation of the doctor and underscore the doctor’s stupidity in the face of his own personal desires.

Machiavelli’s choice to use Latin, for me personally, is perhaps the most interesting linguistic aspect of the play, and the most difficult to explain. Ruffo-Fiore Cro 57

explains it by means of “the humanist concern for the elegance of Latin syntax” but I think this is a bit simplistic. By accepting this idea of a humanist concern we ignore the

social implications of Latin at the time. Latin was found in two places at this time in

Italy—the halls or rooms of academics and their institutions (such as the courts) or within

the Church. It is important to remember that mass was held in Latin until the Second

Vatican Council in 1962. Machiavelli was not a big fan of the Church and his treatment

of the character of Fra’ Timoteo smacks of cynicism and irony. Is it possible that

Machiavelli is using the Latin as a reminder, subtle but strong, of the Church’s continual

use of Latin despite the populace’s inability to understand it? One could make a stronger

case for such a proposition if Timoteo himself had used Latin. However, he does not. The

institutions actually presented in relation to Latin in the play are Medicine and Justice.

These two characters, both presumed to be academics or scholars (one, feigned; the other,

“real” only in that his preparation would have been that of a scholar) propose an

interesting speech act. Callimaco is feigning his learning and employs a vast Latin syntax

in order to describe a medical condition that does not exist. Nicia acts as though he

understands completely and values the “doctor’s” diagnosis, and yet he does not

comprehend that it is nonsense. It does not make sense. Thus manipulation and duplicity

are inherent in the Latin speech acts in the play.

So why use Latin? The question keeps resurfacing. Machiavelli keeps the

diagnostic in Latin as it was common to state in Latin things that could not otherwise be

said because they were considered “obscene”. The pathological and physical descriptions

of the reproductive “problems” might well have been deemed offensive in Italian,

whereas in Latin the vulgarity becomes “hidden”. Of interest to note is that the Venexiana Cro 58 inverts the situation by using the dialect rather than the standard, thus anticipating modern theater. Machiavelli follows a more “traditional” linguistic course and yet at the same time provides some interesting social commentary on the use of Latin at the time.

There is an inherent duality here—what would be considered obscene, vulgar nonsense in the spoken language (Florentine or Italian) becomes an educated, reasonable medical explanation for an “illness”. Machiavelli is subtly pointing out the flaw in the use of Latin by institutions (such as the Catholic Church or government institutions and proclamations made by said institutions, such as the court). It seems that Latin is used as a means of dividing the social classes and keeping those deemed “inferior” in the dark, unable to question because they do not understand. The irony is that even the “learned” such as

Nicia do not really understand, and thus they too are kept in the dark. Machiavelli tackles this issue of duplicity, showing how veritable nonsense and lies, when veiled in Latin, take the form of truth. In so doing, Machiavelli is attacking the hypocrisy of the institutions that use Latin, pointing out that they might well be spouting nonsense, and, what are much more dangerous, untruths.

In the linguistic and stylistic context of the play, Callimaco makes use of a more lyrical, sentimental rhetorical style; one might say that it is “higher” than that used by the other characters in the play, however it should be clear that this is not a reference to the classical conception of “high” style (being that of epic poetry) versus “low” style.

Callimaco uses the style of the lover in several of his soliloquies where he tells of his love for Lucrezia and recounts his suffering at the hands of love. The language is between the poetic and the prose; the style is poetic, using a stylized and high rhetoric: “Quanto più mi è cresciuta la speranza, tanto mi è cresciuto el timore. Misero a me! Sarà egli mai Cro 59

possible che io viva in tanti affanni e perturbato da questi timori e queste speranze?”

(5.1). He goes on to use such words as “Ohimè” to further emphasize the poetic style.

However, the form itself is in prose, so here we have exemplified the melding of a poetic, typically written form and the vocalization of said “poetry” in the spoken. What is important to remember is the state of the character—at this moment he is not the swindling scoundrel, but the young lover suffering from “angustia d’animo,” awaiting news of his proposed conquest. No other character in the play utilizes this highly lyrical and sentimental style. Indeed, the nearest to it is found outside the actual acts in the

canzoni that were added later (Bonino 70). I will later develop this discussion further in

reference to the Venexiana.

The other characters of Mandragola express varying levels of linguistic style.

There are a few minor characters who appear briefly but whose language is perhaps more

“dialectically charged” than Callimaco or Lucrezia. A point of clarification: the concept

of “high” and “low” style should not impose any judgment on the aforementioned nor

should it imply any social judgment cast on the dialect. That being said, in comedy the

playwright often chooses to use language to reflect characters and the coarser the

character, the “coarser” their language. Moreover, given Machiavelli’s purposes behind

the writing of the play, it is inevitable that he is drawing some strict social observations

and linking them by means of the language and register of the characters.

Let us elaborate this point. Perhaps the best example is that of Messer Nicia. He is

a lawyer and a wealthy member of the Florentine community. One would assume that he

might utilize a “higher” rhetorical style since he is cast socially above the other

characters. However, he is perhaps the coarsest character and uses a “low” register that is Cro 60

completely unexpected considering his station in life. Thus Machiavelli makes certain

observations and judgments of this character and what he represents on a broader plane.

By making use of a varied and rich linguistic font, Machiavelli enriches the levels of his work. It is through the use of language that the spectators come to know and identify the characters of Mandragola. Were it not for a plurality in the form, Machiavelli

could not succeed in demonstrating the hypocrisy inherent in society and the dualistic

aspect of human nature. All these characters play different roles, wearing a different

mask depending on the situation and the people they encounter. In this respect, the

dialogues resemble real “speech acts”.

In considering Seklaoui’s discussion of the principle of efficiency within the

speech act (2), one might, by extension, include the text as an example of the speech act.

Because we have no recordings from the 16th century, in order to analyze speech we must

look at the texts provided. As has been suggested by others, dramatic texts are among

those examples of possible sources for spoken language. Machiavelli’s Mandragola

provides exceptional potential as a collection of speech acts. If we consider the play in its

totality, we can see that the playwright has provided the spectators with a number of

varying contexts of speech, including a variety of message-forms (monologues, poetry,

and dialogues) and events. This verisimilitude is of primary importance, not only in

forming the basis for a more complete understanding of the linguistic choices Machiavelli

has made, but also for appreciating the content of the play and his purpose in writing. As

Bonino points out in his analysis of the linguistic aspects of the Mandragola, “non c’è sequenza, non periodo, non battuta della Mandragola che sia pura ‘letteratura’ (...): all’opposto, ogni parola, all’atto d’essere pronunciata, si ritaglia uno spazio scenico, Cro 61

deventa parola-azione e, quel che piú conta, acquista una precisa dimensione morale” (7).

The reality and immediacy of the language and the distinction between the various linguistic styles contribute to the overall plot and prepare the spectator to understand this

play as being relevant in the socio-political context in which it was written.

Language again plays an important role in the other play that we are considering,

the Venexiana. The plot, characters, and prominence of the erotic constitute the content of

the Venexiana, but it is the dialect, the spoken language that transforms it into a

masterpiece. The dialect, that constitutes the spoken, is the fourth element that makes the

Venexiana, along with the Mandragola, the best comedy of the Cinquecento. The

openness of the dialect in the Venexiana underscores important points, among which is

the scene between Angela and her servant Nena. Overwhelmed by passion, Angela asks

Nena to hold her and pretend that she is Iulio:

NENA. Orsú, tornè al vostro luogo e dormè.

ANGELA. [siede sul letto di Nena] Voio star qua. E, se ti vul che dorma,

gètame cussí le to brazze [guida le braccia di Nena intorno al proprio

collo]; e mi sererò gi oci e te crederò el fio.

NENA. [compiacendola] Volèu cussí?

ANGELA. Sí, cara fia.

NENA. Me credèu mo?

ANGELA. [ha chiuso gli occhi e ripreso la voce trasognata di prima] No

ancora. De qua un pezeto.

NENA. [spazientita, la respinge di nuovo] Vogio dormir, mì. Guardè, non

me stenzà... Cro 62

ANGELA. [senza badarle] Vostu farme un piaser?

NENA. Che?

ANGELA. Cara, dolçe, stà cussí un poco; e po comenza a biastemar, azò

che ti creda omo (1.4 [p.23]).

Herein the comedy reveals the artistic quality of the spoken language, as a

spontaneous language of the people in which one can fully express oneself because of the

adaptability of the dialect to the situation. The other unique aspect or quality of the

spoken is that it succeeds in giving such vivacity to the dialogue to render the possibility

of recreating the living language of the community without scholarly, didactic, or

doctrinal interference. To translate this scene in any other language (even Modern

Standard Italian) signifies the inevitable loss of the spontaneity and unique character of

this scene. In fact, it can even cause the loss of innocence in this interaction underlined by

the Venetian. Moreover, the reality or verisimilitude of the scene is lost. This is a

Venetian comedy and as such the linguistic element plays an important part in

elaborating the setting.

The importance of the use of dialect resounds again in the love scene already

referred to between Angela and Iulio in Act III. Perhaps the loss of innocence is not

central since this scene lacks that element. Rather, it is in the loss of the spontaneity and

character or flavor of the scene. In this scene two dialects interlace in the eroticism of the

two characters, Angela’s Venetian and Iulio’s language that is a bit more standard; the language of the stage directions underlines and frames the spoken language of the protagonists, giving to their actions and their words a spontaneous dimension that the formal standard does not seem to have. Cro 63

Let us consider further Iulio’s language in comparison with that of Callimaco.

These two characters share a number of similarities—both are young, attractive men.

Both hail from the “north”, Iulio from Milano (the Lombard region), Callimaco from

Paris. It is important to keep in mind that there is a French presence in the Italian

peninsula at the end of the fifteenth century and throughout the sixteenth century. Both

Iulio and Callimaco are strangers in their respective settings. They both want a woman who seems unattainable because she is married, but neither permits this consideration to get in the way. Linguistically, they both employ an Italian that is much more “standard” than the other characters surrounding them. Alonge, citing Lovarini, makes an interesting observation concerning Iulio’s language: “...una delle ragioni principali per cui Iulio può

apparire poco interessante “va ricercata nel fatto che egli è il solo il quale adoperi nella

commedia l’italiano, e, cioè, una lingua letteraria per definizione” (231). While this may

well be the case, of particular importance to note is that again, as in Machiavelli, the

language choices reflect the character’s nature. Alonge elaborates on Iulio’s use of

standard:

In realtà se il dialetto è “espressione di vita”, immediatezza, spontaneità, la

lingua non-dialettale di Iulio, estremamente misurata, calcolata, anche un

poco astratta, traduce pienamente il suo atteggiamento equilibrato, ricco di

autocontrollo, la sua abilità nel padroneggiare freddamente gli eventi.

(231)

Where Callimaco alone is highly sentimental, Iulio is quite calculating. Callimaco relies a

good bit on Ligurio’s cunning to keep him balanced and on-track. Iulio is a different

matter. One does not get the sense that he is overwhelmed by emotions. Rather, he is cool Cro 64 and collected as he decides which lady to visit. He is the opportunist, par excellence. In contrast to Callimaco, Iulio’s most lyrical moments are not when he is alone—rather they come to the surface when he is in the act of love-making. He always has another present when he expresses his amorous desire. When alone, he is much more concentrated on his own actions, on what is best for him, and on what situation offers him the most possibility.

The Venexiana seems to have superseded the difficulty Machiavelli proposes for the Italian dialects. The critics consider this comedy one of the best of the Renaissance

(Zorzi, Croce, etc.). In this comedy, the spoken language reveals a popular koiné that maintains the spontaneity of the living language, adherent to the daily reality. In this pluralistic comedy (as refers to the setting, it is constantly moving) a comedy of many different places, the scenario changes constantly and the dialect reflects the immediacy and reality that this plurality of setting indicates.

The variety of the spoken dialogues reflects a variety of scenes. Each various setting confirms the author’s choice of various dialects and hence the spoken language is fundamental. The defense of the Florentine on Machiavelli’s part does not exclude the existence of the spoken, nor of the dialect. Machiavelli, in search of a clear and concise definition, offers (or does not offer) a model the moment in which he distinguishes

Florentine from Italian, identifying the former as “parlar proprio fia [deve essere] quello dove è più del proprio che di alcuna altra lingua”. The language of the Venexiana, the

Venetian dialect, fits Machiavelli’s definition of Florentine. However, contrary to what

Machiavelli says of Italian dialects, this linguistic and stylistic characteristic does not limit the comic range, the artistic value, or the universality. In fact, what Machiavelli says Cro 65 of the comedy written in Florentine that the language should be understood by the public in order to entertain, can also be said of the Venexiana, written in a spontaneous and popular language that adheres to the situations and to the characters.

Another important point in the Discorso regards the Florentine models adopted by writers of other regions. In this, Machiavelli claims the superiority of the Florentine model:

“... si vede in questi tempi assai ferraresi, napoletani, vicentini et vinitiani

che scrivono bene et hanno ingegni attissimi allo scrivere [in

fiorentino/toscano]; il che non potevano far prima che tu [Dante], il

Petrarca et il Boccaccio havessi scritto. Perché, a volere ch’e’ venissero a

questo grado, disaiutandoli la lingua patria [il dialetto], era necessario ch’

e’ fussi prima alcuno il quale lor naturale barbaria nella quale la patria

lingua li sommergeva.

This affirmation, overly chauvinistic in the conclusion, offers a fundamental problem: in what measure could the Florentine model transfer to other dialects or other languages?

The exploration of said topic would require another thesis.

Style and Form, Content and Action, Characters and Manipulation

Structurally, these two plays are very similar. Let us examine the two plays, section by section, and identify the similarities in both content and form. First of all, it is important to understand the overall arch of the dramatic action, that is, how the play unfolds. Typically, when analyzing a play, one can identify one of two primary designs— either a climactic plot structure or an episodic plot structure. The classical theater of Cro 66

Rome and Greece exemplifies the climactic plot structure. The play follows one primary

storyline without any major diversions. French Neoclassical Theater of the seventeenth

century follows this tradition. The second of the two plot structures is typical of

Shakespeare but is also exemplified in Spanish Golden Age Theater. Lope de Vega’s

Fuente Ovejuna epitomizes the episodic plot structure wherein there are a number of

storylines that cross over. Shakespeare’s comedies are episodic in nature, for example

Twelfth Night or Two Gentlemen of Verona. There are two major characters and we

follow the storylines of each character. These storylines inevitably meet and coincide,

often leading to humorous and elaborate conclusions.

In examining the Mandragola we find that it follows the classical example and

has a climactic plot line. The action revolves around Callimaco’s desire to bed Lucrezia.

Certainly, there are scenes that do not involve these two characters directly (for example,

the monologues of Frate Timoteo in Act III scene 9 or Act IV scene 6 are soliloquies

delivered to the audience since there are no other characters onstage). However, the

content revolves around and stems from the overarching action of the plot. This concern

is echoed in the prologue. The speaker asserts that the audience will witness an event that took place in “questa terra nato” and identifies the area as Florence, although he points out that it could well take place in Rome or Pisa. So Machiavelli proposes that this is an actual event that could occur in any Italian city. He further alludes to his political “exile,” asking forgiveness if the play seems too frivolous, claiming that he has been prohibited from demonstrating his true abilities: “Ché gli è stato interciso / Monstrar con altre imprese altra virtue, / Non sendo premio alle fatiche sue,” referring again to his political writings and career as the Florentine Secretary from which he was “relieved” after the fall Cro 67

of the Florentine republic under Soderini in 1512 (De Grazia 32). Machiavelli had

appealed to Giuliano de Medici, the new ruler, for help, but because his name was on a

list of conspirators planning to assassinate either Cardinal Giovanni or Giuliano he was

doomed to receive no aid. Whether or not the accusations were true is secondary, for

suspicion enough surrounded Machiavelli and he was imprisoned in early 1513 (33). He

was released the same year, granted amnesty by Pope Leo X, a Medici pope, (40), and

went to his villa just outside Florence where he composed Il Principe and later the

Mandragola. The prologue is rooted in the historical reality that faced Machiavelli and is injected throughout with autobiographical elements (and a healthy dose of bitterness).

Moreover, he describes the reward he expects to receive during the play: “El premio che si spera è che ciascuno / Si sta da canto e ghigna, / Dicendo mal di ciò che vede o sente.”

It is a rather morose view of the work’s purpose. However, it is important not to confuse the possible plurality of purpose and the plurality of the characters within the drama with the singularity of the plotline itself. The action follows one central goal—Callimaco’s desire for Lucrezia. All other action stems from this central purpose. The author himself makes this evident in his description of the plot in the prologue.

The Venexiana is a bit harder to define. One is inevitably drawn to the conclusion that the plot is episodic in nature. This is a rather exciting development since most of the comedies at this time in Italy are climactic in structure. The plurality of the action stems in part from the author’s declared purpose in the prologue. The speaker in the prologue summarizes the plot and further underlines that through the plot (plural in nature because consisting of the actions of two women in love) the audience will have a better understanding of Love (“Amore”—personified in Cupid, which inevitably makes one Cro 68

think of Tasso’s Aminta written in 1573 [Jernigan and Jones xv]), Love’s power in

women, and how “we” fall victim to Love:

Oggi lo cognoscerete chiaro, o spectatori, quando lo amor smisurato de

una nobile conterranea vostra odirete posto in un forestiero giovenetto; e

la audacia et callidità sua cognoscerete in aver quello; doppoi lo gioco e il

gaudio che de lui se piglia; parimenti lo amor de una altra, pur in quel

medemo già posto, per sospecto de questa exacerbato. Di che, la letizia de

una et il dolor de l’altra conprehendendo, vederete quanto Amor in donna

sii potente e qualmente siàn venti da soa forza. (9)

The spectator is constantly pulled back and forth between Angela’s love story and

Valeria’s love story, the common link being Iulio. In Act I we are introduced to both ladies and to their desires. They have both fallen for the young dashing gentleman from

Milano, Iulio, and both want him. Iulio has seen and fallen for Valeria, and is on the lookout for a young, wealthy wife. The servants of both ladies appear in scenes with their mistresses. The action of the play goes back and forth, and thus sets up a kind of symmetry between the two women by which the audience can compare their respective reactions in this game of love. The second act portrays the women’s advances. However, neither of them speaks to Iulio directly. Rather, they send their servants to meet with him, a touch reminiscent of Roman comedy (as exemplified in Plautus’ Pseudolus). The biggest difference is that Valeria sends her female servant, Oria, while Angela sends, via

Nena, Bernardo. It is the latter who cements a deal with Iulio and promises more

“reward” and “satisfaction” in a physical manner than does Oria. Bernardo promises delivery, so to speak, and they agree to meet later where Iulio is staying so that Bernardo Cro 69

can take him to Angela’s house. Never is Angela’s name mentioned, and her identity

remains a secret for part of the play until she is identified by Valeria. Secrecy and

discretion rule the acts of love in Venice, and the actual business of arranging the “trysts” is carried out in the shadows on small side streets by a third party. Manipulation runs under most of the action. The servants are forced into the role of “matchmaker” and are not terribly happy about it. It requires money to get Bernardo’s assistance:

NENA. Sastu, bel missier, zò che ti vadagnarè? e quanti danari ti vul dar

Madona? Diex ducati, lombrài, in un sacheto. (2.2)

In the case of Oria, she seems to be dominated by Valeria who is often abusive towards her servant and falls victim to flights of emotion.

The servant playing the role of “go-between” is not unique to the Venexiana.

Rather, it is a concept of classical plays (for example, Pseudolus). In the Mandragola, however, the role seems to change a bit. While Siro does serve as a messenger between

Nicia and Callimaco, he goes from trusted confidante at the beginning of the play to a secondary role after Ligurio takes over. The dirty work is done for the most part by

Ligurio (or is at least instigated by him). Granted, Ligurio is taking on the role of

Callimaco’s “servant” so to speak, yet he never really serves and in the end the spectator is left wondering how much Ligurio did for Callimaco’s sake solely and how much was inspired by his own desires and motivations. Such is not the case in the Venexiana. The servants are adhering to the orders of their mistresses. They are not creating or inventing

as they go along. Rather, they are merely an extension of the lady’s desire and will.

Let us turn back to the structure for a moment and attempt to identify perhaps the

most important point in any play—the climax, the point where the action reaches the Cro 70

pinnacle and after which point the plot has nowhere else to go but to the resolution. The

placing of the climax is a rather sticky proposition and depends slightly on one’s purpose.

For example, a director preparing a piece for performance wants to place the climax as

close to the end of the play as possible, because it is understood that the actors are

building towards an ultimate goal and pursue this goal through the climax after which

point comes the resolution. Tension mounts and the overall climax of the play is

determined by the overarching “goal” or “purpose” of the play. In the case of the

Mandragola, we have already said that the overall goal of the play is for Callimaco to win Lucrezia, to bed her, to love her and claim her for his own. It seems natural, therefore, to place the climax at the end of Act IV, where Nicia has “captured” the youth

(Callimaco in disguise) and sends him off to bed his wife and rid her of the “poison” of the mandrake root. The completion of this action is indicated in Frate Timoteo’s rather risqué suggestion in his monologue in scene X at the end of the act that no one sleeps that night and therefore the unities are kept intact. Act V sees the resolution, the tying up of loose ends. However, a very important event takes place in Act V, and that is the transformation of Lucrezia. She changes. In fact, she is the only character who changes.

So, while one can make a case for Act IV as the climax, I propose that the real climax is in Lucrezia’s transformation affirmed in Act V, and herein we find perhaps the key to

Machiavelli’s thought—the mutability of people and the necessity of said mutability.

While Lucrezia does not have a lot of stage time, she is the central figure around whom the action hinges. The success or failure of Callimaco’s plight ultimately rests, not on

Nicia’s compliance as is suggested by the actions of the characters, but on Lucrezia’s ability to change her personal maxims or beliefs. Whether or not the change is for the Cro 71

better is left up to the audience to decide. However, change was necessary, and in this

case, Lucrezia acquires more power (at least in her domestic setting) than she had before through this conversion. Having realized the extent of her husband’s disregard for her feelings and, incidentally, having been awakened to the joys of sex with her new, younger partner, she has metamorphosed into a new person. She is now a willing participant in the game of love, and even Nicia notices a difference about her: “Tu se’ stamani molto ardita! Ella pareva iersera mezza morta.” Her reply is quick: “Egli è la grazia vostra!” She has been changed through the machinations of men (primarily, although her mother did help some).

The Venexiana, however, is quite different. While the ending of the Mandragola

is left a bit in the air as to what will happen next, there is some sort of conclusion.

Nevertheless, the many allusions pointed out by critics to its historical and/or social

relevance would indicate an open interpretation. While we are told that Callimaco and

Lucrezia will remain lovers in secret until Nicia’s death and can hence presume that life

continues indefinitely in this ambiguous “happy ever after,” the satiric nature of the play

is inherently pluralistic. In reality, we do not see the happy conclusion, and as

Machiavelli points out throughout this comedy, appearances can be deceptive. Anything

could happen once the curtain falls, in particular with a parasite like Ligurio involved

whose allegiances fall to whomever has the best financial offer. In fact, at Lucrezia’s

insistance, Nicia gives Callimaco a key to the house and invites him to return whenever

he pleases: Cro 72

NICIA. E vo’ dare loro la chiave della camera terrene d’in sulla loggia,

perché possino tornarsi quivi a lor commodità, che non hanno donne in

casa, e stanno come bestie. (5.6 [62])

Callimaco naturally accepts, hence while the potential for a “reversed” “happy” ending is

there, the possibility of trouble is also very clearly present. It is this very mercurial nature

about which Machiavelli seems to be warning the spectator. However, if we stipulate that

there is at least a “temporary” peace called and a sort of conclusion established at the end of the Mandragola, we must note that the author of the Venexiana does not afford his

spectators the same luxury. Part of the ambiguity of the conclusion stems from the

ambiguity (or perhaps the multiplicity) of the climax. For Angela, the climax is reached

in Act III when she realizes her goal and claims Iulio as her own. After Act III she no

longer appears onstage. She is represented through her servants and she is referred to by

Valeria, but once Iulio knows her identity she does not reappear. It is as though once the

carefully constructed mask that hides her identify falls, she has lost her power over Iulio.

Valeria, however, is seen throughout the play, and her story reaches the climax at the end

of the play in Act V when she leaves with Iulio for a night of pleasure. Again, while

Angela consummates her love onstage, Valeria does not. She disappears offstage with

Iulio, and we are led to assume that she will consummate her relationship, but we are

uncertain. There is no definite conclusion. We do not know how it ends for them.

Moreover, we do not know how Angela will take the news. How does she react when

Bernardo informs her that Iulio will not come? One cannot say for certain. It seems that

the action has ended before tragedy could strike. It is perhaps the enigma of the play that

has made it so popular. It is very modern in one sense because it does not “tie up the Cro 73

loose ends” so to speak. On the other hand, the ending is rather “old-fashioned” solely in

the idea that the guy gets the girl (or the girl gets the guy, depending on your reading). Of course, once one defines what one means by “gets” then the play takes on a risqué tone.

The enigma of the play also contributes to its novelty. It does not follow the unities, it does not end resolutely, and the role of women is much larger and more central than in most other comedies of this period. What one must decide is whether or not these women are controlling the events. Granted, they give the orders, but they are portrayed as having fallen victim to their emotions for Iulio. Iulio has indeed been taken with both women and their attention for him, and perhaps he can be seen as the “conquered” referred to in the prologue, having fallen prey to the love that has rendered the women powerful. On the other hand, he controls the encounters, deciding whom he shall visit and when.

Ultimately, if one follows the prologue, Love is the only controlling force, and men and women fall victim to it every time equally.

However, is it really love or just lust? We broached this subject earlier, and it is perhaps worthwhile returning momentarily. Love is not portrayed as the courtly gestures of the past. Rather, it is physical and seductive, requiring action on the part of those

“seduced”. I think lust is perhaps a better definition of this “love”. Perhaps it would be fair to say that the author sees “lust” as the “power” or “controlling will” that dominates love.

Purpose and Interpretation

What, then, was the authors’ purpose in writing their respective comedies? When examining a dramatic work, it is important to think about what the playwright’s aim was Cro 74 in writing the piece. Having examined the literary and historical context, having foraged into the play itself and looked at the language, one is left now with the rather difficult task of deciding why the author wrote it. I say difficult because seldom does the author leave behind for his followers a neat statement of intent. Even when the author does indicate possible reasons for having written a play, one has to ask oneself if they really meant it or if that too was part of the illusion. This is the challenge that faces us now.

We’ve discussed the “how, when, what, who, and where”. All that is left is the “why”. In addressing the “why” I am going to offer my own interpretations of the plays that might explain the purpose of the authors.

In the Mandragola, let us return to the discussion above, the mutability of

Lucrezia and her transformation through the machinations of men in a male-dominated society. It is now necessary to clarify the historical context within which the play was written. From the fall of the Roman Empire in the west in fifth century through the sixteenth century foreign domination defined and divided the Italian peninsula. After the fall, Italy was divided up and conquered by numerous invaders. Limited attempts at unity were made, but rarely successful, and rarely did any unity last for an extended period of time. Not only did foreign powers argue for control of the peninsula—the Church itself rose up as a player in the political chess game. In the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries two of the best known Italian states rose up: Venice and Florence (Duggan 49). Venice was a republic, “famed for its political stability” (49), particularly fond of spectacle (an aspect we will explore further in the following chapter): “Civic life was full of rituals and processions: these encouraged corporate pride, and also had a specific function to impress and entertain the poor” (50). Florence was also a republic but was highly unstable: Cro 75

“Government was oligarchic and based on the guilds, with the seven major guilds (arti maggiori) having the lion’s share of the offices. The executive (signoria) was filled rotationally and by lot, while legislative power resided in large popular assemblies” (50).

Despite political attempts at unity, factionalism continued in Florence until the rise of the

Medici in 1434 at which point they took control of the city politically (51). However, control of Florence did not remain in the hands of the Medici exclusively. The

Dominican prior Savonarola took over for a few years in the mid-1490s (54) as did other groups before power returned to the Medici in the early sixteenth century. What is most important to keep in mind is the constant fractionalism and conquest that defined the

Italian peninsula throughout the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries: “From the mid- fourteenth century the wealthiest Italian states consumed ever larger swathes of surrounding territory. Florence took Prato, Pistoia, Volterra, Arezzo, Pisa, and Livorno between 1350 and 1421; Venice seized Treviso, Vicenza, Verona, Padua, and Friuli in the same period…” (57). Duggan goes on to describe how Milan also endeavored to expand its reign. Unrest plagued the Italians:

In the South, the accession of Alfonso of Aragon to the Sicilian throne in

1416 was followed by the conquest of Naples and wars against Florence,

Genoa, Milan, and Venice. The turmoil and conflict in the peninsula was

made worse by the papal schism: from 1378 there were two, and at one

time three, rival popes encouraging their supporters and helping pit one

power against another. (57)

In the second half of the fifteenth century powers in Italy attempted to stabilize their situation, fearing foreign intervention from the Ottomans and other powers, in particular Cro 76

the French (58). In 1454 the Italian League was created to form an alliance against

possible foreign invasion. It consisted of Milan, Florence, Venice, the papacy, and

Naples. However, the league did not maintain its alliance. Threats of war loomed. The

Turkish threat was realized in the 1470s and 1480s, however, as Duggan points out, the

popes were not assuaged and continued to fight at all cost for control of central Italy,

citing the fraudulent Donation of Constantine as cause for their claim (59). The French

threat finally materialized in 1494 when Charles VIII of France crossed the Alps and

invaded the North (59). The peninsula was subjugated to a long series of wars that began

with Charles VIII’s invasion of Naples and included assaults by Spanish, French, and

Imperial troups in the first half of the sixteenth century (60): “By the time Guicciardini

wrote [in the 1530s], the Italian states had been reduced to mere pawns in an international

power struggle” (61).

The Mandragola was written in 1518. At this time, as indicated above, Italy was divided under a number of foreign powers. Foreign domination was a constant threat (and it was not always lurking in the shadows). In the sixteenth century Italy was divided up

into city-states ruled by various nobilities, such as the Court of Este in Ferrara, the Doge

in Venice, the Sforza in Milano, and the Medici pope in Rome. Often these City-States,

in order to gain or maintain power would make alliances with foreign powers (France

being the most enthusiastic participant in such allegiances during this period). In 1504,

Charles Valois marched French troops into Florence to take it for the Vatican and France

(newly allied). What is significant is that while the country was divided politically, in

literature and art the Italians sought unity. The very importance of la questione della

lingua supports and underlines this desire. Italy was one “country” divided by many Cro 77

conquerors from the fifth century Germanic invaders to the twelfth century Norman

invaders and so on throughout its history until unification in 1860 and even then Italy

would serve as a pawn for foreign powers. There was an inherent need for Italians to

unify, particularly the intelligentsia (it is, after all, their works that remain as a testimony to their nationalistic yearnings). Unification was impossible in a geopolitical context. The next best choice was a literary and linguistic unity.

Machiavelli was no exception when it came to a desire for unity. His political

treatise, the Principe, revolves around maintaining power in order to maintain unity within one’s territory. It is here that I offer a possible interpretation of the Mandragola as a political allegory, as Martinez also suggested, but with a bit less emphasis on Livy. Italy is often seen as a woman, often addressed as female in literature. Perhaps Lucrezia serves as a symbol for Florence or Italy, and the men in her life could very well represent the various City-States and foreign powers that are endeavoring to conquer her. For example,

Callimaco is coming from France, much like Charles Valois. He is looking to “conquer”

Lucrezia, but can only hope to do so with the help of various characters (or City-States) such as Ligurio and Nicia and the compliance of Fra’ Timoteo (who might represent the papacy or the Church). Some of the city-states are portrayed as unwise and foolish (I cannot decide decisively which City-State Nicia represents) while other “rulers” such as

Ligurio are crafty and follow their own desires, trying to make the foreign power fall in

line with their will. In the end, through the active and passive (or better, unintended) help

of the various rulers, “Italy” is conquered, her allegiances divided between two rulers,

and a profound change has overcome her. What then, in this scenario, is Machiavelli

trying to say? Well, perhaps he is merely offering an allegory of the situation to raise Cro 78

awareness amongst the viewers. Perhaps he wishes to indicate the need for Italy to

change in order to gain power. Perhaps it is necessary to make alliances. However, given

the cynical and biting tone of the play, I would propose that the allegory is made with the

utmost contempt and that Machiavelli’s conclusion is perhaps an advisory or cautionary example of what may happen. Lucrezia was “corrupted” with the help of her own mother and the church. It is left to the audience to decide whether or not this is “good” or “bad”.

Machiavelli clearly points for a need to change, at least on the part of Lucrezia (Italy), and recognizes that while Lucrezia (Italy or Florence) changes, the other characters

(states, Church) remain the same, regardless of the effect it has on Lucrezia. The only one who changes in the play is Lucrezia, and one is hard-pressed to say that she has actually changed for the better.

While the Mandragola paints a picture of Italian society in both literal and

figurative terms, the Venexiana deals more with the concept of Love and how it plays out

in two women who cause a man to be torn between their affections. In thinking of the role of women in this play one is torn between stating the obvious that they play a huge central role and that they exhibit a large amount of control; and that they are still portrayed as the victims of their uncontrollable desires. However, the sexual liberty that they possess is not to be ignored. In fact, Act III is perhaps one of the most overtly sexual scenes portrayed on the stage, certainly in that particular historical context, but honestly it is risqué even by modern standards. In the love scenes between Iulio and Angela in this act, the erotic is masterly portrayed. Conscious of the difficulty of the subject, the author warns the audience to forgive the poetic license of the author who made his actors recite such daring lines: “Tutti, ve prego, prestate orecchie et in alcuna parte non vi turbate, se Cro 79

quello, che da sé è da passar sotto silenzio, oggi di nostri mimi senza vergogna serà

pubblicato” (Prologus, 9-11). The reason is clear: one cannot understand the nature of

Love (Amore) without experiencing the consequences that it provokes in life:

“Imperocché, dobiando esser ben edocti de la proprietà de Amore, è necessario che tutti soi effecti distinctamente cognosciate” (Prologus, 11). Again, as in the Mandragola,

there is the suggestion of life, of reality, and of the need to experience said reality. While

Zorzi’s edition of the play ends simply with “Finis”, Balducci’s translation adds in the

words: “Non fabula non comedia ma vera istoria” found in another publication of the

text. This line is the basis of Padoan’s study and exploration of the possibility that this

play is more biographical and indebted to reality rather than the creation of a playwright’s

imagination. The possibility that this is not completely fiction but rather has root in

history is fascinating; however what does it tell us about the author’s purpose? Why record such events? Merely to explore the power of love over man and woman alike? A worthy exploration, no doubt, and very interesting. It is almost poetic in its scope. Is there more to it, though? Perhaps the Venexiana is meant to represent Venetian society on a whole.

There are those theatrical works that project onstage a reflection of the very audience they are meant to entertain. Indeed, I would go so far as to say that social commentary is at the root of many theatrical pieces. The Venexiana is one of those works that reflects her surroundings like a mirror on the wall, permitting us to take a look at

Venetian society in the sixteenth century. The very “entertainment” of the comedy is conceived as a form of education, and an enjoyable one at that. The Venexiana considers, as stated in the prologus, the free expression of passion roused by and in part satisfied by Cro 80 two Venetian noblewomen. Zorzi might indeed be correct when saying that the comedy was conceived to be performed in private. In part, this limited thought of diffusion might well explain the very frank and open portrayal of the private lives of Venetian noblewomen. Moreover, it might explain why the play was ignored for over four centuries. If no public performance of the play was recorded, then its very existence would not be thought about. Walsh notes: “The most we can safely assume is that there was at least one chamber reading by the circle of cognoscenti for whom the piece was initially composed” (23). In a city highly conscious of collective morale, of the necessity to defend the Republic’s reputation, the comedy suggests an implicit protest, a discordant note, if one confronts and examines contemporary documentation of the Venetian government, in grips with prostitution and homosexuality (with of course the moral implications of the time period). And although Zorzi proposes dating the Venexiana around 1509-1518, as mentioned earlier, other scholars have proposed later dates; but regardless of the dates, it is safe to say that the author would have been aware of the decrees and laws of the Venetian government between 1460 and 1542. Let us examine some of these decrees in an attempt to better understand the historical context of the

Venexiana and to appreciate the influence it must have had on the author.

For example, in 1460, the Collegio dei Capi del Sestiere di Rialto issued laws the imposed, among other things, the following conditions:

The said Lords [Capi del Sestiere] have ordained that from henceforth all

whores of the island of Rialto must repair to the public place and to the

vaults assigned to them, upon a fine of 10 lire and twenty-five lashes each. Cro 81

Item. They have decreed that no sinful or other woman may have herself

touched or have carnal knowledge of any man in the daytime in any inn,

tavern or bath-house, on pain of ten lashes and a fine of 5 lire for each

offence; and any keeper of an inn, tavern or bath-house who permits a

woman to have herself touched on his premises during the day shall be

fined 10 lire for each woman… (Chambers and Pullan 121-122)

Other decrees regarding the residence in Rialto of the prostitutes and the conditions imposed on those who frequented them included:

Item. They have ordained that no keeper of an inn, bath-house or tavern

may henceforth charge any sinful woman more than 2 ducats per month

for food, wine and the rent of her room, upon a fine of 50 lire to the keeper

of the inn, bath-house or tavern, who shall also forfeit the extra charge he

has made, and shall have no right to claim it.

Item. The said Lords have decreed that these whores may not leave the

island of Rialto by day or by night without the permission of the Heads of

the Sestieri, save on Saturday mornings; they must not wrap themselves in

cloaks, but must display the usual sign, on pain of 10 lire and ten lashes

for each offence, for which they shall also forfeit the cloak.

Item. They have ordained that the said whores may not remain in their

place or in their vaults after the second hour of the night, in order to avoid

many scandals, upon the penalties specified above (…) They have

ordained that no whore or sinful woman may dare to enter or to live in any

house, vault or room on the site where the Scuola di San Gottardo once Cro 82

stood, or in any other place opposite to the church of San Matteo di Rialto.

If there is any vault or room close to the door of the church, then out of

reverence for God and the Virgin Mary it must be walled up so that no

sinful woman may occupy it, on pain of 10 lire and fifteen lashes, and of

100 lire for the proprietor who allows them to live and remain there.

(Chambers and Pullan 122-123).

On homosexual practices, the chronicler of 1509 believes to be able to justify the disaster of Agnadello, May 14 of the same year, (during which the Venetian army was completely defeated by a multinational force composed of Spanish, German, French and

Papal troops) by blaming the defeat on the homosexual nature of the Venetian men that he claimed was too rampant and tolerated in Venice. He describes homosexuals as extravagant men who spend a good amount of money and time (too much is the implicit judgment) on clothing:

Young Venetian nobles and citizens tricked themselves out with so many

ornaments, and with garments that opened to show the chest, and with so

many perfumes, that there was no indecency in the world to compare with

the frippery and finery of Venetian youth and their provocative acts of

luxury and venery. Truly they may be called not youths, but women (…)

had their elders taken action, and forbidden this indecent clothing, this

lascivious and dishonorable behavior, this effeminacy on the part of their

sons and relatives, perhaps things would have gone differently and the

heavens would not have allowed such a catastrophe to fall upon us (…) By

the power of money these young people turned from men into women (…) Cro 83

What must I say and write, wise readers, about the Venetian patricians and

senators, white-bearded, advanced in years and full of wisdom (…) and

paid the young men money to satisfy them in this perversion (…) Surely

this is a wicked and abominable thing (…) especially among old men.

(Chambers and Pullan 124-125)

The laws that punished homosexuality were not observed and their sanctions were not imposed upon all transgressors:

But these laws, ordinances and decrees were neither respected nor

enforced, and that was because the persons responsible for their execution

were themselves involved in these offences (…) the vice had now become

so much a habit (…) and it neither deserved nor received any punishment

– except for some poor wretch who had no money, no favours, no friends

and no relations: justice was done on people like that, and not on those

who had power and money and reputation, and yet committed far worse

crimes. (Chambers and Pullan 125)

In 1539 a decree of the Consiglio dei Dieci contained the following rules for the practice of prostitution (Once again we see laws being made to control what are deemed to be sexual excesses):

1. that all whores that have come to live here in the past two years shall

be expelled;

2. that whores shall not be permitted to live near churches;

3. that they shall not be allowed to go to churches at the times when these

are frequented by women of good and respectable standing; Cro 84

4. that they may not keep in their service girls or serving-women aged

thirty years or less;

5. that traveling female servants, until they find a place to live, may lodge

only in the house of some woman of good reputation, and one such

person shall be appointed in every parish, as shall seem best

(Chambers and Pullan 126).

Three years later, on February 21, 1542, a decree of the Senato demonstrates that the problem was anything but resolved:

There are now excessive numbers of whores in this our city; they have put

aside all modesty and shame, and go about openly in the streets and

churches, and furthermore are so well dressed and adorned that on many

occasions our noble and citizen women have been confused with them, the

good with the bad, and not only by foreigners but also by those who live

here, because there is no difference of dress. (Chambers and Pullan 127)

The decree establishes that prostitutes must dress in a different manner and to insure that their appearance was completely different from that of the Venetian noblewomen the decree orders that they dress in the manner of those who occupied the cities of Bergamo and Brescia, cities obviously, at that period, not known for their fashion of dress (it is perhaps a comment on the Venetians’ view of the inhabitants of these cities as well):

...no whore living in Venice may dress in, or wear on any part of her

person, gold, silver or silk (....) but only cloths of Bergamo or Brescia.

(Chambers and Pullan 127) Cro 85

Finally, the decree seeks to define the prostitute, as though her identity could be defined

in terms of her conduct and associations with the members of the male sex:

The term ‘whore’ shall be understood to refer to those women who, being

unmarried, have dealings and intercourse with one man or more. It shall

also apply to those who have husbands and do not live with them, but are

separated from them and have dealings with one man or more. (Chambers

and Pullan 127)

By this definition, I hate to point out that most women today would be deemed “whores” and destined to wear the less fashionable clothing so that they could be distinguished easily from the rest.

Why, then, go into all this discussion of the prostitute? To clarify the position of women who stray from the moral teachings of the Church at this period and to explore the concept of sexuality in Venetian society as it pertains to women. Decrees were not typically issued on how married women should conduct themselves with their husbands.

The broadness of the above definition makes it important for us, the spectators, to understand what exactly the author is doing in the play. It would be interesting to try to understand how Angela and Valeria would be defined or described in light of the above documents. Perhaps we can understand the Venexiana as moving through a highly sensitive environment, incorporating and conscious of the highest circles of government and of the sexual activities of Venetian society. The strict manner in which sexual practice was defined (and hence limited) makes it necessary for the discretion, the manipulation, the indirect contact between men and women that permeates the play. Yes, the Venexiana might well be a study of love, but it is also a study of how this love (and Cro 86

lust) ultimately interacts and survives in Venetian society during the sixteenth century. It is thus that one understands the urban element, dominated by moral and legal scruples. In this sense the Venexiana constitutes, not only a work of art, but also a document of

Venetian sensibilities. Evidently in the Venice of the Cinquecento there was a stratum of the population that felt that their concept of their own sexuality did not coincide with the official version. Thus, the spoken language is not only a style rendered of a living and spontaneous language, but it is the intimate expression of a dissent that betrays a protest, even if it is disguised in the form of a comedy.

Cro 87

CHAPTER 4:

THEATRICALITY, SPECTACLE, AND PERFORMANCE

When attempting to examine a play, one must inevitably include a discussion of the performance aspect. After all, a play falls under the category of “dramatic art”, emphasis on the dramatic, the visual element. While a script may be read ad nauseam, full understanding of the work can come only in a consideration of the work as the author intended it to be—a visual presentation, to be performed for an audience. As we are wont to say of Shakespeare, “His works were meant to be seen, not read.” The same is true for the authors of “our” plays. If they had not conceived of performance in writing then they would have in all likelihood chosen a different manner of presenting their thoughts. I feel compelled to note that the majority of studies that I have looked at have examined any number of varying perspectives of the texts in question—but few have actually considered the visual aspect as having played a part in conception. The scholars must either assume that this goes without saying or that the visual plays no part. I sincerely hope (and believe) that it is the former. Regardless of their reasons, I believe that the visual is very important, for it is in the visual that one can fully understand the importance of the “lingua parlata” or spoken language. Indeed, if the text were simply made to be read, then the authors might well have used the standard and saved themselves the trouble of thinking of the colloquialisms and dialectal qualities that make up the spoken. Rather, they chose to use the spoken in order to not only closer imitate the societies that they are portraying, but to facilitate comprehension of the work in Cro 88

performance by the majority that did not necessarily have a working knowledge of the

standard spoken by scholars.

Moreover, why pay attention to replicating society so that it is easily recognizable

if not to emphasize the importance of performance of these works? Drama is not meant to be read. I know this is a shocking statement to make in a literary analysis. Granted, reading is important, but the ultimate goal of any dramatic piece is performance, is to create a visual representation that exemplifies the goals and purposes that the author has conceived in writing the play. It is necessary to understand this aspect completely and to keep it in mind. Any less and we are not being faithful to the author’s purpose, to the conception of the work, and to the nature of the work itself.

Perhaps the reader is asking him or herself why I am so definite on this point. I feel it goes to the core of the conception of “theatricality” and the critique made of the

Mandragola by a few scholars, most notably Franco Fido, that the play is not theatrical:

“…la più famosa commedia italiana del Cinquecento è anche una delle meno “teatrali” che si possano immaginare” (102). Leicester Bradner makes a similar criticism of the comedies of the Cinquecento in his discussion of Latin drama of the Renaissance. He is discussing Mussato’s Ecerinis (1314): “In this, the very first of Senecan imitations, we already see the undue use of the messenger and his narrative as a substitute for real dramatic action. We must admit, nevertheless, that there was more excuse for this practice in the fourteenth century than in the sixteenth, for the earliest humanists wrote only for public recitation, not stage production” (32). I take issue with both of these statements. Granted, these are two well-known and very able scholars. I do not presume to doubt their scholarly studies. I do, however, doubt their definitions here, and while it Cro 89

may be a question of semantics, I feel that part of the misconception may stem from a

lack of consideration of the performance aspect and history of these plays. Rather than deem the play untheatrical, perhaps we should ask ourselves why Machiavelli chose not to display certain actions and to focus on the interaction of the characters. I believe that authors make choices, conscious of their effect on the work. Machiavelli chooses not to show certain events because they are not the focus. Rather, he is interested in the scandal, in the gossip, in the machinations of his characters and in the creation of a lie that ultimately leads to a transformation. It is not the events that are responsible for Lucrezia’s ultimate transformation; rather, they are the by product of a series of games and tricks played out by his actors who wear masks to enable their deception to succeed. I’m not sure what Bradner means when he says “real dramatic action”. There is action on the stage. Ligurio and Callimaco make a fool out of Nicia several times before the audience’s eyes. Through Ligurio’s machinations and deceptions, Fra’ Timoteo is maneuvered into aiding the deception on center stage, although the priest is not completely unwilling—the

promise of financial compensation outweighs the discomfort and scandal his position

may cause. The audience witnesses Callimaco’s “capture” and is party to his removal to

Nicia’s house. The laws of propriety stopped Machiavelli short of actually performing the

sex scene for the audience. I think there was a purpose behind this too. In Greek tragedy, the audience never sees the murder or suicide. In Oedipus Rex we are told of Jocasta’s suicide. The spectators never see Oedipus blind himself. In Antigone we do not see her

death—she is in the cave, beyond the eyes of the audience. Why? Because the Greeks

believed that the human imagination was a wonderful and terrible thing. It was capable of

creating a horror that far exceeded anything they could show. Machiavelli, in putting Cro 90

certain scenes offstage, requires his audience to think. In a world where television and film have desensitized the majority, Machiavelli’s play may well seem “untheatrical”. In reality, we are imposing on a sixteenth century play the conceptions of the twentieth century.

Having made such an emphasis on the visual element, let us consider, for a moment, what performance might have been like at the time of these plays’ original productions.

The Spectacle of Performance

We have already established the indebtedness of these comedies to the Roman theater in terms of plot, structure, and character. The next logical step is to examine the influence of the Roman theater on the staging of these comedies itself. Of interest is to examine some pictures of the archeological remnants of the Roman theater and compare these to descriptions in the stage directions of the plays. It is also important to note the overall reaction to theater at this time and how an audience might react to a dramatic performance. Let us begin with the Mandragola and a consideration of the Roman stage.

Below you will find several pictures taken a few years ago in Pompeii of the

Roman theater (modeled on the Greek) on the left and the Roman Odeon (smaller than the larger Roman amphitheater) on the right. We can observe the remnants of three doors, a standard component of the Roman stage. They predate the backdrop created by Serlio in the second half of the sixteenth century: Cro 91

1 2 The similarities between this type of setting and that described in the Mandragola are hard to ignore. Let us consider Machiavelli’s indications of the setting in the prologue itself:

Quello uscio, che mi è qui in su la man ritta,

La casa è d’un dottore,

Che imparò in sul Buezio legge assai.

Quella via, che è colà in quel canto fitta,

È la via dello Amore,

Dove chi casca non si rizza mai.

Conoscer poi potrai

A l’abito d’un frate,

Qual priore o abate

Abita el tempio ch’all’incontro è posto,

Se di qui non ti parti troppo tosto.

Un giovante, Callimaco Guadagnio,

Venuto or da Parigi,

Abita là in quella sinistra porta. (13)

1 Roman amphitheater, Pompeii. Personal photograph by author. June 2003.

2 Roman Odeon, Pompeii. Personal photograph by author. June 2003. Cro 92

From his description, we have the image of a city street with three buildings (two houses,

one on either side, and a Church in the center). Whether, when indicating left and right,

he is referring to the audience’s left and right or the actor’s left and right is uncertain.

What is certain is that here we have the classical three-door structure typical of Roman

comedy. Further, the action takes place outside, on the street, another reminder of Roman

comedy. The Oxford Illustrated History of the Theater provides the reader with further

visual illumination. In the chapter on Italian Renaissance Theater, there is a reproduction

of an illustration of a scene from Terence’s Andria (remember that Machiavelli translated

this play himself) dating from Venice in 1524. The caption reads, “The order of the

woodcuts follows the progress of the plot; the back-curtains represent entrances to the

habitations of the various characters, who are identified by the first letters of their names”

(112). These woodcuts clearly present the three-door stage, modified perhaps to an

interior setting rather than an exterior, but clearly Roman (and ultimately Greek) in

origin.

If one were to imagine how the play might have been staged, one would have to

do a bit of guesswork, extrapolating on what is known of this period. We know that

theatrical representations were generally moving inside. In the second half of the

sixteenth century we witness the creation of the proscenium-arch. It seems reasonable to

presume that, whether the play were presented interior or exterior, in general the audience

would have been facing a flat presentation of the set. As indicated by the above description, curtains might have been used to indicate entrances although it is foreseeable, given the amount of detail devoted to medieval stage presentations, that set pieces might have been constructed. Whether or not they were practical (i.e. functioning, Cro 93 as in doors that opened and closed, windows that did the same) is a point for further speculation, but I would have to say no since the play does not call for such a technical detail. In reality, the play merely calls for the three buildings to be there and provide a place for entrances and exits; the action takes place in front of the homes, so the issue of their practicality is secondary. The question could be resolved simply with curtains. If the play were outside, they might well have performed on a type of raised platform, perhaps even a wagon reminiscent of the medieval pageants (discussed further below). If it were performed inside then the staging would depend on what type of space was being utilized. If the room were a large banquet hall, then I would think that a raised platform of some type might well have been used, but whether or not actual sets were used would depend again on the space’s size, the budget permitted for the production, and the circumstances under which it was being performed. If it were part of a festival then one assumes that spectacle would have been considered and probably well planned. What makes this play particularly alluring even today to a modern director is that regardless of the space, this play can be effectively produced. A modern audience is very willing to suspend their disbelief, and a director might choose to set the play in any number of places or cities. With the help of modern technology and stage considerations, a designer can create a space to either transport the audience back to the sixteenth century or keep them bound in the twenty-first century, depending on the director’s vision. The conventions of the sixteenth century do not hold true for today and the audience is very willing to suspend their disbelief to an extent that audiences at Machiavelli’s time might not have been willing to experience. The play holds a certain amount of interest, as it could be performed in any space without many sacrifices to the content; it would be just Cro 94

as home on the proscenium stage as it would be in a thrust theatre, and it might find the

thrust theatre more conducive since it is so much more intimate, forcing the audience to

really experience the play first hand as though they two were part of the machinations and gossip that flies around the stage.

While the “three-door” convention was common in the late fifteenth and early

sixteenth centuries, it does not explain the Venexiana’s multiple and varied staging.

While the Mandragola follows the tradition (at least in so much as concerns the staging),

the Venexiana seems to break pretty radically from this classical tradition, calling for a

multi-level presentation of two palazzi, various streets and street corners, and canals and

gondolas. How can we explain this difference? Part of the explanation falls again on the

dating of the play, and part falls on a consideration of other sources for theatrical staging

as well as the overwhelming fascination with spectacle at this time period, the grander the

better. Let us begin with a brief consideration of another source for staging: the medieval

theater.

David Brubaker is quite clear in his book Court and Commedia: Medieval and

Renaissance Theater that in order to properly understand the performance techniques of the sixteenth century one must first consider its most immediate predecessor, the religious dramas and farces of the medieval theater. He elucidates that the staging technique of the time was a “simultaneous setting” or “multiple staging” that called for the use of mansions (15). A mansion was a set piece of sorts, much like a gate to represent a city, or a roofed structure on a platform to mimic another setting such as a temple. He gives an example of this staging technique, citing the performance of the

Passion play at Valenciennes: Cro 95

It had its mansions set out on a long platform, with paradise at one end and

hell at the other. Mansions or set pieces between these extremes

represented the palace of Herod, the Temple, Nazareth, the Sea of Galilee,

and other places needed in the vast cycle of plays….The mansions…were

decorative, ornate, and often most elaborate, but they tended to be

symbolic structures setting off the scene, providing a focus, rather than

locating the scene by means of realistic illusion. (15-16)

These theatrical performances occurred on special occasions—there was no permanent

theater, it was built for the festival or holy day being celebrated and then returned to

storage for use the next year. Is it possible that the author of the Venexiana had this type

of performance in mind when writing the play? If so, does this implicate that the date for

the writing of the Venexiana might well have been earlier than Padoan proposes? It’s hard to tell. Perhaps at this point we should consider the importance of spectacle for the

Italian citizen of the sixteenth century.

Spectacle and performance become more common as we leave the medieval period and move into the Renaissance. Elaborate productions at Courts such as Ferrara included dance, acrobatics, and, eventually, staging of Roman classics, translated into

Italian, and eventually the performance of Italian comedies. Brubaker discusses the court at Ferrara and the influence of the Este family on theatrical arts as a good example of what theater performances might have been like in the early sixteenth century prior to the conventions that become established in the late Cinquecento. He notes the tendency of

Renaissance architects to consider the medieval mansions as a unified scene, a “classical” street. This concept of unity stems from the revival of interest in the Roman comedies of Cro 96

Plautus and Terence (26-7). An important new step for this conception of the stage is the

advent of perspective. In a letter that describes the plays presented at the Carnival in

Ferrara in 1508, there is a note of perspective in use on the stage in the scenery. The letter

describes the scene of Peregrino (Pellegrino da Udine, the Duke’s painter) and his use of perspective to capture the city scene. Brubaker notes, “By the use of perspective, the

artist brought to the scenic background the architectural features of a crowded town”

(27). Hence the scenery strived to further emphasize the realism and immediacy intended

by the authors. In addition, Brubaker emphasizes the political ramifications of the rise of

theater at Ferrara: “From a humanistic, scholarly concern with classic theater there

developed a theater art at the service of the dukes, celebrating their acts and enhancing

their glory” (30). It is an important consideration to take into account—who was the

intended audience and what was their view of the plays.

While discussing entertainment practices and sources in Venice, Chambers notes,

“Venetians also had a taste for sheer spectacle” and offers as evidence a letter dating from 1530 that chronicles the enactment of an elaborate and involved mock naval battle that was performed on the Bacino di San Marco facing the Doge’s Palace (376). The author of the letter (Benedetto Agnello, the Mantuan ambassador) notes that the performance “…would have been a lot better if it had lasted longer…” (382). Later in the letter he describes a stage built in front of the Palace:

This stage, covered by deep blue cloth and decorated with very fine

carpets, very beautiful silken upholstery … and every other sort of

adornment, was judged on this account and also because of the ladies

[there were 106 ladies seated on the stage], who had been invited because Cro 97

they exceeded in beauty all the others in the city, to have been the best

thing in the whole festival… (382)

There is also a description of the performance conditions of a particular performance dated 9 February 1525 that can perhaps give us a clue as to what a performance might have been like in Venice around the time that the Venexiana is purported to have been written. The writer notes that a number of affluent members of society were present to see a comedy being rehearsed at Ca’ Arian at San Raffaele:

It began at the twenty-fourth hour [sunset] and lasted until the sixth. There

were nine intermezzi and three comedies. First [there was] one in prose by

Zuan Manenti, called Philargio and Trebia and Fidel. Then the Paduans

Ruzante and Menato, as rustics, did a comedy about peasant life, totally

lascivious and full of filthy words, so that everyone disapproved of it and

cried ‘Shame!’ There were almost sixty ladies present in the upper seats,

wearing long gowns, the young ladies wearing coifs, who were horrified at

the things being called by their names. The whole conclusion was about

fornicating and cuckolding husbands. But Zuan Polo acted very well, and

the intermezzi they did were very beautiful, with all the skill in music and

singing that one could wish for; they were dressed in various costumes as

Moors, Germans, Greeks, Hungarians, pilgrims and many other costumes,

but without masks. (380)

It is entertaining to ponder whether the Venexiana might have been met with similar scandal. However, if we concur with R. Andrews’ study (based heavily in areas on Padoan), then such a performance did not take place. Andrews identifies the Cro 98

Venexiana as commedia cittadina (he acknowledges that the classing is that of Padoan).

Andrews elaborates on the definition of this genre, “According to Padoan’s plausible account, groups of enthusiasts from the middle range of society mounted private performances in their own houses of comedies written for a Venetian context and a

Venetian audience, and which sometimes claimed to represent real events” (104). Zorzi too indicates that the play was probably written to be recited in a private palazzo “durante una festa o un banchetto riservato a un pubblico d’eccezione” (113).

Andrews remarks that “both he [Padoan] and other commentators agree that it was

performed (or intended for performance) to an all-male audience” (105). He goes further

to suggest that it might have been performed by an all-male cast as well, which of course

poses problems of staging the love scene unless one follows his suggestion that it is done

behind a veil. He adds this might alleviate the innuendo that the actors in the scene are

naked (107).

Andrews seems to set up much of his description in order to ultimately turn

against the conclusions reached by others. He questions whether the play might actually

have been intended for performance or whether it was actually intended to be a staged

reading. He points out that in a modern context staging the play would not be difficult

because the modern theater has more technical conveniences that would allow a quick cut to black, for example, at the end of the scene in Act I Scene 4 between Nena and Angela, to permit the actors to get offstage; or, the love scene in Act III could be staged in one part of the stage while the dialogues between Bergamo and Nena that cut the love scenes could be placed on another part of the stage. Further distinction between the two scenes could be provided not only through the use of levels (such as platforms) but through the Cro 99 use of lighting, a modern concept not available to the Renaissance playwright or set designer. As Roberts points out, “The obstacles present themselves…when we try to imagine the play’s first staging in 1536 or thereabouts—when inhibitions of taste, inhibitions of theatrical dogma and habit, and sheer technical difficulties would all be immensely greater than we would face today” (111-112). While I appreciate his arguments, I hesitate to concur completely. Yes, indeed, for the modern theater practitioner it is difficult to imagine how the Renaissance theater might have surmounted the problems posed by a twentieth-century concept of performance. However, therein lies the problem. When reading the play with modern eyes, one considers that in performance the pacing would be quick and upbeat, but who’s to say that that is how the performance might have been interpreted in the Cinquecento? Perhaps the playwright had in mind the medieval mansions when writing. Moreover, in a society where they manage to stage a mock naval battle, I feel it is presumptuous on our part to assume unilaterally that the staging requirements of said play were too challenging for the theater practitioners to overcome at the time of its composition. Finally, in considering the possibility that the play was written not to be performed but to be read, I again have my reservations.

Andrews’ arguments are good, and I feel they are quite important in contributing to a fuller conception of the piece in its theatrical context. But perhaps, in analyzing the play from a twentieth century viewpoint, we have overlooked the possibility that performance habits and trends might have differed substantially. The audience might be willing to believe more with less illusion. What is interesting is that Andrews does not note this possibility and yet he closes his article discussing the possibility of misinterpretation of the play, considering it a gem in modern terms without considering the fact that in the Cro 100

sixteenth century the female portrayals might well have sought to objectify women (115).

Again, an interesting and valid point, but perhaps a bit extreme.

Performance Histories and Modern Adaptations

The performance histories of both plays have been dealt with relatively fully in

other sources. Bonino’s “Nota Bibliographica” covers the early performances of the

Mandragola, noting that the first performance might have been in 1518 in Florence during a carnival celebrating Lorenzo di Piero de’ Medici’s marriage to Maddalena de La

Tour d’Auvergne and continues to state that certainly by 1520 the play was already well

known (69). He remarks that the play was a great success in Rome and Venice and that

the play was performed in 1526 in Faenza and that it was for that occasion that the

intermezzi (canzoni) were written. It has since been revived and performed in Italy and in

other countries in translation. Of particular interest is the film version of the play,

directed by Alberto Lattuada in 1965. The movie remains faithful to the plot and tone of

the comedy, but since it is a film adaptation the setting (although maintained in sixteenth

century Florence) does utilize interiors and exteriors. Moreover, the love scene so

carefully excluded from Machiavelli’s comedy is shot by Lattuada.

The performance history of the Venexiana is a bit sketchy. Walsh believes that it seems unlikely that the play received a full-scale public production in its own time given

the challenges of staging the work and the fact that no mention of its performance is ever

made (22): “The most we can safely assume is that there was at least one chamber

reading by the circle of cognoscenti for whom the piece was initially composed” (23).

However, since its discovery, the comedy has been performed in Venice. Walsh notes Cro 101

Arnaldo Momo’s staged readings and “chamber productions” of the play in 1947 and that

Momo staged a full production in 1969. The play has been performed under Momo’s

direction a number of times since then and has toured some as well (Padua, Florence,

Switzerland, and Innsbruck). The play was also performed at the Spoleto Festival under

the direction of Maurizio Scaparro in 1965 and in 1971 was directed by R. Padoan. It was

revived a few times in the 1980s and, like the Mandragola, there was a film version of

this play as well. It was done by Mauro Bolognini in 1986. The most recent performance

of the play known to the author at the time of this study was in Venice at the Teatro

fondamenta nuove in January of 2005 by the theatre company I Fratellini e

Gruppodacapo and was well received3. The performance was done on a type of proscenium stage in a theatre that seats 200. The most recent English-language performance of the play known to the author at the time of this study was done by the

University of Michigan’s Harlotry Players under the direction of Walsh himself in March of 1998 (Walsh 24).

It is interesting to consider the possibility as to whether or not one of these plays influenced the other. Again, we return to the question of the dating. If we go with the later dating of the Venexiana, placing it’s composition in the mid 1530s, then it is

possible that the author saw a performance of Machiavelli’s Mandragola and was

perhaps interested in the game of love that revolves around a woman’s choice (or lack

thereof). If, however, we consider that the Venexiana was written in the early sixteenth

century, possibly before the Mandragola, then it seems unlikely that Machiavelli would

have been influenced by the Venetian comedy. It is a rather vague topic that, while

3 See . Cro 102

appealing and amusing to consider, lacks the concrete evidence to make more of it than

idle conjecture.

Conclusion

At the conclusion of this study, it falls to the author to try to make some final

closing thoughts on the work contained in these pages. In the end, one is of necessity

drawn to that element that seems to fully capture the true originality of these dramatic

(and comedic) works. It seems that one of the most important novelties of both the

Mandragola and the Venexiana is what one might call the “anthropology of urbanitas”.

In both works, the spoken language plays a key role. As we have seen, it allows for authenticity of expression. Further, it promotes the exploration of the truth about society, as opposed to the hypocritical assumptions of the time. For example, in the Mandragola, the satirical portrayal of Latin as juxtaposed with the spoken underlines the hypocritical attitude of some scholars still holding onto the superiority of Latin, no longer understood and becoming more and more the language of deception, from the prestigious language of science and religion. Also, Machiavelli, while making use of “types” or stock characters, creates real people, all representing various facets of the human condition. The Venexiana seeks to explore the erotic in particular. The play portrays the inherent contradiction

between the story and the incessant attention paid by the Venetian government to

prostitution and related vices (such as the exploitation of young unprotected women, the

questionable role of the go-betweens, the prevalence of pimps, and the sanitary risks for

the population) seen as practically ineffectual over a long period of time during which

penalties and laws were always more severe and always ignored. In both works the Cro 103 parlata, with its implied spontaneity and immediacy, allows an in-depth inquiry into the social fabric, vis-à-vis the official perception and the perceived need for reforms. Both plays seek to accurately portray the social circumstances of their immediate settings, they are drenched in contemporary urbanism—in short, they are very realistic. And it is this aspect of the plays that seems to anticipate the kind of theatrical activity that we associate with the European stage of the seventeenth, eighteenth, nineteenth, and twentieth centuries, when theater was finally perceived as one of the most effective tools for the education of the people and the exploration of social issues and social reform. It is perhaps this penetrating modernism on the part of the authors of these works that attracts modern audiences and intrigues scholars. These plays are not merely comedies—they are shrewd examinations of the socio-historical context within which they were written, and as such are valuable not only as examples of great art and great playwriting, but also serve as historical documents allowing a modern reader to appreciate the human and social concerns of the primo Cinquecento. The ability of the authors to not only astutely evaluate their own society in such an artistic and suave manner but to project onto the stage a certain universality in the form of the basic messages and purposes of the works ensures the legacy of these plays and their continued prominence in Western theater. It is a coveted placing that is most certainly well deserved.

Cro 104

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