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Patronage, Gender
and the Arts in
Early Modern
Italy
•
“Good friends, like good books, should be shared.”
— CarolynValone
Patronage, Gender
and the Arts in
Early Modern
Italy
•
Essays in Honor of
Carolyn Valone
•
Edited by
Katherine A. McIver and
Cynthia Stollhans
italica press
new york
2015
Copyright © 2015 by Italica Press
ITALICA PRESS, INC.

595 Main Street
New York, New York 10044
inquiries@italicapress.com
Italica Press Studies in Art & History
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced,

stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by
any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or
otherwise, without prior permission of Italica Press. For permission
to reproduce selected portions for courses, please contact the Press at
inquiries@italicapress.com.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Patronage, gender & the arts in early modern Italy : essays in honor of
Carolyn Valone / Katherine A. McIver and Cynthia Stollhans, Editors.
pages cm. -- (Studies in art & history)
Summary:“Sixteen essays by an international group of scholars that examine
the role of noble women as patrons of architecture and music in early
modern Italy and that explore the behavior of woman art patrons and artists
involved in the creation of art and architecture”-- Provided by publisher.
ISBN 978-1-59910-306-8 (hardcover : alk. paper) -- ISBN 978-1-59910-
307-5 (pbk. : alk. paper) -- ISBN 978-1-59910-308-2 (e-book)
1. Art patronage--Italy. 2. Women art patrons--Italy. 3. Arts, Italian. 4. Arts
and society--Italy. I. Valone, Carolyn, honouree. II. McIver, Katherine A.,
editor. III. Stollhans, Cynthia, editor. IV. Title: Patronage, gender and the arts
in early modern Italy.
NX705.5.I8P38 2015
707.9’45--dc23
2015023843
Cover image:The Tomb of Mausoleus, Halicarnassus. Engraving by Philips Galle after

Maerten van Heemskerck, Seven Wonders of the World, 1572.
For a Complete List of Italica Press Titles

Visit our Web Site at:
www.ItalicaPress.com
Contents
Acknowledgments XII
Introduction
Katherine A. McIver & Cynthia Stollhans XIII
Part I: noble men and women as patrons of architecture: power
and faith
The “Wife’s Room” in Florentine Palaces of the Fifteenth and
Sixteenth Centuries
Brenda Preyer 1
Locating Power:Women in the Urban Fabric of Sixteenth-
Century Rome
Katherine A. McIver 21
A Palace Built by a Princess? Olimpia Maidalchini Pamphilj and
the Construction of Palazzo Pamphilj in Piazza Navona
Kimberly L. Dennis 43
The Rhetoric of Power: Della Rovere Palaces and Processional
Routes in Late Fifteenth-Century Rome
Lisa Passaglia Bauman 65
Artemisia Conquers Rhodes: Problems in the Representation of
Female Heroics in the Age of Catherine de’ Medici
Sheila ffolliott 85
Elite Matrons as Founders of Religious Institutions: Ludovica
Torelli and Eleonora Ramirez Montalvo
Anne Jacobson Schutte 103
Nuns, Agents and Agency: Art Patronage in the Post–Tridentine
Convent
Marilyn Dunn 127
Musical Marketing in the Female Monasteries of Early Modern
Rome
Kimberlyn Montford 153
Part II: notorious men and women and the arts: Sex, greed and
scandal
A Monster’s Plea
Suzanne B. Butters 177
Preaching in a Poor Space: Savonarolan Influence at Sister
Domenica’s Convent of la Crocetta in Renaissance Florence
Meghan Callahan 211
V
Patronage, Gender and the Arts
The Pious Act of an Impious Woman: The Courtesan Fiammetta as

Art Patron in Renaissance Rome
Cynthia Stollhans 231
More Trials for Artemisia Gentileschi: Her Life, Love and Letters in
1620
Elizabeth S. Cohen 249
Mr. Cellini Goes to Rome
Michael Sherberg 273
“Un Monsignore troppo abbondo contro le monache”: Alfonso
Paleotti Meets His Match
Craig A. Monson 293
Suis manibus fecerat: Queen Dido as a Producer of Ceremonial
Textiles
Gretchen E. Meyers 303
What to Wear in the Decameron and Why It Matters
Elissa Weaver 315
Bibliography of Carolyn Valone’s Works 331
Index 333
VI
Illustrations
Frontispiece
Carolyn Valone speaking at symposium on Renaissance Women and the Arts,
Saint Louis University, October, 1993. (Photo: Cynthia Stollhans.) ii
Brenda Preyer. The “Wife’s Room” in Florentine Palaces of

the Fifteenth and Sixteenth Centuries
Fig. 1. Plan of the primo piano of the Medici Palace, 1650; selected rooms labeled
according to the inventory of 1492. 2
Fig. 2. Plan of the primo piano of the Gianfigliazzi Palace; spaces labeled
according to the inventory of 1485 (reconstruction by Matthew Haberling). 3
Fig. 3. Plan of the primo piano of the Tornabuoni Palace in 1498 (reconstruction);
spaces labeled according to the inventory of that year (Caterina D’Amelio). 4
Fig. 4. Plan of the primo piano of the Pazzi Palace (reconstruction); spaces labeled
according to an inventory of 1626 (Caterina D’Amelio). 9
Fig. 5. Plan of the eastern half of the primo piano of the palace of Alberto di
Zanobi, later of Francesco Nori (Giuseppe Medici, 1766). 10
Fig. 6. Plan of the primo piano of the Gondi Palace (Enrico Au Capitaine, 1867);
spaces labeled according to the division of 1537. Photo Andrea Lensini. 12
Fig. 7. Plan of the primo piano of the Borgherini Palace in the sixteenth
century (reconstruction, Giampaolo Trotta). 14
Fig. 8. Plan of the primo piano of the Corsi-Horne Palace (Fani Revithiadu). 15
Fig. 9. Plan of the primo piano of the Capponi-Barocchi Palace in the fifteenth
and sixteenth centuries (reconstruction) (Caterina D’Amelio). 16
Kimberly L. Dennis. A Palace Built by a Princess?

Fig. 1. Piazza Navona, from Mari and Marcucci, Grandezze della citta di Roma,
1625, tav. 57. 44
Fig. 2. Stefano Pignatelli, Palazzetto Pamphilj, piano nobile plan, 1615
(ADP 86.2.2). 45
Fig. 3. Unknown artist. View of Piazza Navona (from south end), c.1630
(Museo di Roma, MR 3651). 46
Fig. 4. Palazzo Pamphilj, piano nobile, from Bosticco, Piazza Navona, isola dei
Pamphilj. Development of the palazzo, 1612–1646 (plan modifications by
Rebecca Charbonneau). 50
Pamphilj. Francesco Pepperelli renovations, 1634–1638 (plan modifications by
Rebecca Charbonneau). 51
Pamphilj. Renovated apartments of Donna Olimpia, 1646–1649 (plan
modifications by Rebecca Charbonneau). 60
VII
Lisa Passaglia Bauman. The Rhetoric of Power: Della

Rovere Palaces and Processional Routes in Late Fifteenth-
Century Rome
Fig. 1. Map of the Campo Marzio area showing part of the route of the
Annunciation procession past the palaces of Girolamo Riario and Giuliano Basso
della Rovere (at the second arrow). From L. Bufalini, Pianta di Roma, 1551, repro-
duced in A. Frutaz, Le Piante di Roma (Rome: Istituto di Studi Romani, 1962),
vol. 2, tavola 201. 75
Fig. 2. Map of the Borgo showing the location of the palace of Domenico della
Rovere in the upper left quadrant of the lower right sheet. From L. Bufalini, Pianta
di Roma, 1551, reproduced in A. Frutaz, Le Piante di Roma (Rome: Istituto di
Studi Romani, 1962), vol. 2, tavola 189. 81
Sheila ffolliott. Artemisia Conquers Rhodes: Problems in the

Representation of Female Heroics in the Age of Catherine
de’ Medici
Fig. 1. Philip Galle, after Maerten van Heemskerck, The Mausolaeum (The Tomb of
Mausolus at Halicarnassus), 1572, engraving on laid paper: 22.5 x 27.2 cm (8 7/8 x 10
11/16 in.). Washington, DC:The National Gallery of Art. Gift of the
Estate of Leo Steinberg 2011.139.96. 87
Fig. 2. Antoine Caron, Les Deux Statues, c.1560s–70s. Paris: Bibliothèque
Nationale de France, Rès. Ad 105. 26r. Pen and Ink with wash and white
highlighting. 89
Fig. 3. Pietro Tacca and Baccio Bandinelli, Monument to Ferdinando I, 1615–23.
Bronze and Marble. Livorno, Piazza della Darsena. 91
Fig. 4. Philip Galle after Maarten van Heemskerk, Judith Displaying Holofernes’ Head
to the People of Bethulia, plate seven from The Story of Judith and Holofernes, 1564.
Chicago:The Art Institute of Chicago. Engraving in black on ivory laid paper;
203 x 248 mm (image); 205 x 251 mm (plate); 227 x 275 mm (sheet). Gift of
Ursula and R. Stanley Johnson in honor of Douglas Druick, 2011.1081. 94
Fig. 5. Annunciation and Visitation, Reims Cathedral, c.1225. 95
Fig. 6. Master MZ, Phyllis Riding Aristotle, c.1500. Engraving on cream laid paper,
182 x 131 mm (sheet).The Art Institute of Chicago: Clarence Buckingham
Collection, 1935.10. 96
Anne Jacobson Schutte. Elite Matrons as Founders of

Religious Institutions: Ludovica Torelli and Eleonora
Ramirez Montalvo
Fig. 1. Portrait of Ludovica Torelli. Carlo Gregorio Rosignoli, S.J., Vita, e virtù della
contessa di Guastalla Lodovica Torella nominate poi Paola Maria fondatrice dell’insigne monis-
tero di S. Paolo (Milan: Giuseppe Marelli, 1686), a2v. Courtesy of Biblioteca
San Francesco della Vigna,Venice (A R IV 14). 116
VIII
• illustrations
Fig. 2. Portrait of Eleonora Ramirez Montalvo. [Maria Ugolini del Chiaro], Vita della
serva di Dio donna Leonora Ramirez Montalvo fondatrice dell’umili ancille della Santissima
Trinita del nobile conservatorio detto Le quiete e delle ancille della ss. Vergine dell’Incarnazione
(Florence: Michele Nestenus & Francesco Mouck, 1731), opposite title page.
Biblioteca Civica agli Ermitani di Padova (CF.0745).With the kind permission
of the Comune di Padova – Assessorato alla Cultura. 120
Marilyn Dunn. Nuns, Agents and Agency: Art Patronage in

the Post–Tridentine Convent
Fig. 1. Designs for Gate at San Silvestro in Capite, Rome. From Contract with
Girolamo Caffi, 16 October 1680 (Archivio di Stato di Roma, Congregazioni
religiose femminili, S. Silvestro in Capite, Busta 4993, f. 177.With permission of
the Ministero dei Beni e le Attività Culturali, ASR 34/2014). 135
Fig. 2. Giacinto Brandi, Assumption of the Virgin with St. John the Baptist, St. Sylvester,
and Other Saints, San Silvestro in Capite, Rome (Rome, ICCD, Fototeca Nazionale, E
50055. Reproduction authorized by the Italian Ministry of Cultural Heritage
and Activities, Central Institute for Cataloguing and Documentation). 136
Fig. 3. Chapel of the Trinity, Sta. Lucia in Selci, Rome (Photo: Author). 143
Fig. 4. Domenico Maria Canuti and Enrico Haffner, Apotheosis of St. Dominic, Nave
Vault, SS. Domenico e Sisto, Rome (Rome, ICCD, Fototeca Nazionale, E 21197.
Reproduction authorized by the Italian Ministry of Cultural Heritage
and Activities, Central Institute for Cataloguing and Documentation). 146
Fig. 5. Patrizi and Bonanni Primi Chapels (center and right) with Altarpieces by
Giuseppe Passeri, Sta Caterina a Magnanapoli, Rome (Rome, ICCD, Fototeca
Nazionale, N 33988. Reproduction authorized by the Italian Ministry of Cultural
Heritage and Activities, Central Institute for Cataloguing and Documentation). 148
Suzanne B. Butters: A Monster’s Plea

Fig. 1. Giovanni Stradano, Prince Francesco de’ Medici at work with his alchemists, 1570.
Francesco’s Studiolo, Palazzo Vecchio, Florence. (Photograph Antonio Quattrone.) 178
Fig. 2. Johannes Schenk. Conjoined twins: adult host in contemporary dress with
parasitic twin (46), stillborn infants (47) and live-born infants (48). From his
Monstrorum historia memorabilis (Frankfurt: 1609) 65. (Author’s copy.) 186
Fig. 3. Johann Amos Comenius,“Deformes & Monstrosi” / “Deformed and
Monstrous People.” From his Orbis sensualium pictus (London: 1728), XLIV,
55–56. Manchester, Chetham’s Library. 193
Fig. 4. Michael Maier, Albertus Magnus points to the alchemical symbol
hermaphrodite, from his Symbola aureae mensae duodecim nationum
(Frankfurt: 1617), 238. Manchester, Chetham’s Library. 198
Fig. 5. Adult one-headed monster with two bodies (host and parasitic twin).
From Ulisse Aldrovandi, Monstrorum historiae (Bologna: 1642), 614. Manchester,
Chetham’s Library. 200
Fig. 6. Valerio Cioli, Marble fountain with copy of the dwarf Morgante riding a
tortoise, 1561–64. Boboli gardens, Florence. (Photograph Antonio Quattrone.) 202
IX
Fig. 7. Andrea del Sarto and Alessandro Allori, Caesar receives tributes from Egypt.
Fresco in Great Hall, Medici Villa at Poggio a Caiano. Detail: dwarf holding a box
with a chameleon (Andrea del Sarto, 1521) adjacent toYoung Boy holding a
turkey (Allori, 1582). (Photograph Antonio Quattrone). 204
Fig. 8.Tiberio di Tito, Medici dwarf with lapdogs in the Boboli Gardens, early
seventeenth century. Private Collection. Fine Art Photographic Library,
London/Art Resource, NY. 205
Fig. 9. Giovanni Battista de’ Cavalieri, Portrait of the Re Picino in Rome, 1585.
Engraving from his Opera nela quale vie molti Mostri de tute le parti del mondo antichi
et moderni. London, British Museum. ©Trustees of the British Museum. 206
Fig. 10. Giovanni Battista de’ Cavalieri, Portrait of a Monstruosa Fanciulla in
Rome, 1585. Engraving from his Opera nela quale vie molti Mostri de tute le parti del
mondo antichi et moderni. London, British Museum.
©Trustees of the British Museum. 207
Meghan Callahan. Preaching in a Poor Space: Savonarolan

Influence at Sister Domenica’s Convent of la Crocetta in
Renaissance Florence
Fig. 1. AMC, Leopoldo Veneziani, groundplan of la Crocetta, 1811.
(Photo author, with the kind permission of Sister Antonina). 212
Fig. 2. AMC, Anonymous Florentine, Nativity, c.1475 (?). (Photo author, with
the kind permission of Sister Antonina). 220
Fig. 3. AMC, Box of Bulls and loose documents. Loan from Caterina Cibo, writ-
ten by Giovanni degli Albizzi. (Photo author, with the kind permission of Sister
Antonina). 223
Cynthia Stollhans. The Pious Act of an Impious Woman: The

Courtesan Fiammetta as Art Patron in Renaissance Rome
Fig. 1. Circle of Andrea Bregno and Mino da Fiesole,Tomb of Cardinal Jacopo
Ammannati Piccolomini, after 1479. Photo: Lisa Passaglia Bauman. 238
Gretchen E. Meyers. Suis manibus fecerat: Queen Dido as a

Producer of Ceremonial Textiles
Fig. 1. Giovanni Francesco Romanelli, Dido Showing Aeneas Her Plan for
Carthage, c.1630-35. Photo: The Norton Simon Foundation. 303
Elissa Weaver.What to Wear in the Decameron and Why It

Matters
Fig. 1. Giovanni Boccaccio, catchword portrait, in ink and watercolor, of Landolfo
Rufolo (Dec. II 4). Staatsbibliotek zu Berlin-Preussischer Kulturbesitz
(SBB-PK), Ms. Ham 90, fol. 16v. 318
Fig. 2. Giovanni Boccaccio, catchword portrait, in ink and watercolor, of the
abbot (Dec. I 4), Staatsbibliotek zu Berlin-Preussischer Kulturbesitz (SBB-PK),
Ms. Ham 90, fol. 8v. 319
X
• illustrations
Fig. 3. Giovanni Boccaccio, catchword portrait, in ink and watercolor, of Gianni

Lotteringhi (Dec. VII 1). Staatsbibliotek zu Berlin-Preussischer Kulturbesitz
(SBB-PK), Ms. Ham 90, fol. 79v. 320
Fig. 4. Giovanni Boccaccio, catchword portrait, in ink and watercolor, of Neifile,
story-teller and Queen of Day Two. Staatsbibliotek zu Berlin-Preussischer
Kulturbesitz (SBB-PK), Ms. Ham 90, fol. 31v. 320
Fig. 5. Giovanni Boccaccio, illustration, in ink, of the Martellino story (Dec. II
1). Paris, Bibliothèque Nationale de France, Ms. It. 482, fol. 23v. Below, detail of
Martellino hung. 321
Fig. 6. Giovanni Boccaccio, illustration, in ink, of the Filippo Balducci exemplum
(Dec. Introduction Day IV). Paris, Bibliothèque Nationale de France, Ms.
It. 482, fol. 79v. 323
Fig. 7. Giovanni Boccaccio, self-portrait, in ink and watercolor, on parchment.
Frontispiece of Buccolicum Carmen. Florence, Biblioteca Medicea Laurenziana,
Ms. Plut. 34,49, fol. IVv. Published here with the permission of MiBACT. 328
•
XI
Acknowledgments
First and foremost, the editors would like to thank CarolynValone —
for her scholarship, her influence, her friendship and her numerous
friends. Carolyn was once called a “sociological phenomenon” by
one of her colleagues who was, no doubt, referring to her large, glob-
al circle of friends. This volume attests to that very issue. Although all
contributors are serious experts in their respective fields, we mostly
know of each other because we met through Carolyn. Working on
this volume was a pleasant and rewarding experience — scholar-
friends sharing a common goal of wanting to pay tribute to Carolyn.
When the editors first invited scholars to contribute, responses were
quick, and they happily sent abstracts and later sent the completed
essays. A special thanks to each and every contributor who helped at
every step in completing this volume.
In memory of Olan Rand and Barbara Sparti
XII
Introduction
Katherine A. McIver & Cynthia Stollhans
The essays in this volume celebrate the work and legacy of Carolyn
Valone, professor of Art History, also teacher, mentor and friend to
many. Valone’s publications on “matrons as patrons” and “pie donne”
became influential, ground-breaking work in the 1990s. Her work
on women as patrons of art and architecture pioneered a meth-
odological approach that many scholars followed. As a professor,
Carolyn leaves a trail on two continents of former students from
Saint Louis University (St. Louis, Missouri), Trinity College (San
Antonio, Texas), and St. Mary’s College (Rome, Italy) — some of
who are now employed at universities and museums in the United
States and Great Britain. Taking a Carolyn Valone course was like
taking a walk through sixteenth-century Florence and Rome — not
a virtual reality but one totally built with her words, gestures and
slides for the scholarly pleasure of her students in the classroom. So
complete was the experience that students hated for the allotted class
time to be up.Terms such as decorum, rhetoric and sprezzatura all be-
came part of the working classroom vocabulary that spilled into dis-
cussions, outside of class, among students. Likewise, through friendly,
persuasive discussions with numerous friends, colleagues and scholars
in Rome, Carolyn has impacted both formal and informal students
of art history. Her willingness to discuss ideas and to share references
is equaled by her enthusiasm to encourage and support scholars —
both young and old.Through one or both of these channels, all con-
tributors in this volume, representing the diverse disciplines of music,
history, art history, Italian literature and archeology, are united in hav-
ing been shaped by Carolyn’s scholarship and wisdom.
For Carolyn Valone interest in the art historical method of patron-
age began with her graduate studies. Carolyn received her Ph.D.
(1972) in Art History from Northwestern University where she
studied with Olan Rand (Ph.D., Princeton University) and James
Breckinridge (Ph.D., Princeton University). For certain she spent
more time in Italy than in Evanston where she researched and wrote
her dissertation on “Giovanni Antonio Dosio and His Patrons.”
. An up-to-date bibliography appears in this volume.
. Carolyn Valone,“Giovanni Antonio Dosio and His Patrons” (Ph.D. dissertation,
Northwestern University, 1972).
XIII
Valone continues to be recognized for her expert scholarship on

Dosio. Two of her Dosio articles, from 1976 and 1977, have been
translated and included in the 2011 Italian publication entitled Giovan
Antonio Dosio da San Gimignano: Architetto e scultor fiorentino tra Roma,
Firenze, e Napoli, edited by Emanuele Barletti.
While pursuing research interests on the understanding of
Renaissance patronage as a means to elucidate the context and func-
tion of art, by the late 1980s Carolyn discovered in the archives of
Rome many unpublished wills and various documents for sixteenth-
century matrons — especially widows of prominent, noble families
who used their own money to commission architectural projects.
Carolyn, through her intensive archival research, recovered the voice
of many women whose commissioned projects had been lost, or
worse, assigned to a male patron. As she wrote:“If we wish to recon-
struct the role played by women patrons in early modern Italy, we
must go beyond female tokenism which relegates women patrons to
the category of ‘exceptions.’” Valone’s publications directly impact-
ed the reinstating of the voice and power for generations of wom-
en from some of Rome’s most important families such as the Cesi
and the Colonna. Her pious ladies — Portia dell’Anguillara Cesi,
Lucrezia della Rovere Colonna, Caterina de’Nobili Sforza, Vittoria
della Tolfa Orsini (Frontispiece) and others — have now become
well-known figures in the world of Renaissance art-history circles,
almost to the point of being household names in more informed
homes. In fact, two of Valone’s matron patrons who were sisters-in-
law, Fulvia Conti Sforza and Caterina de’Nobili Sforza, are discussed
in the popular textbook titled Art in Renaissance Italy by John T.
Paoletti and Gary M. Radke, proving that her work has changed how
we teach courses in Italian Renaissance art and architecture.
. Carolyn Valone, “Giovanni Antonio Dosio: Gli anni Romani,” in Giovan
Antonio Dosio da San Gimignano: Architetto e scultor fiorentino tra Roma, Firenze, e
Napoli, ed. Emanuele Barletti, (Florence: Edifir, 2011), 155–68; and idem,“Paolo IV,
Gugliemo della Porta, Dosio e la riconstruzione di San Silvestro al Quirinale, in
Giovan Antonio Dosio, 169–81.
. Carolyn Valone, “Matrons and Motives: Why Women Built in Early Modern
Rome,” in Beyond Isabella: Secular Women Patrons of Art in Renaissance Italy, ed. Sheryl
Reiss and David Wilkins (Kirksville, MO: Truman State University Press, 2001),
317–35, at 317.
. John T. Paoletti and Gary M. Radke, Art in Renaissance Italy, 3rd ed. (Upper
Saddle River: Pearson/Prentice Hall, 2005), 523–24. For Valone’s work on the two
XIV
McIver & Stollhans • Introduction
Within a ten-year period, Valone wrote and published articles that

would change the known history of women’s roles as patrons in
early modern Rome. First and foremost is the importance in recov-
ering and re-stating women’s voices in their motives and influence
in architectural patronage. Valone’s earliest publication resurrecting a
female voice is her 1990 article on “Elena Orsini, Daniele da Volterra,
and the Orsini Chapel.” Elena Orsini was the natural but recognized
daughter of Aldobrandino Orsini, archbishop of Nicosia, a man who
sired five sons and one daughter.Through Elena’s own good fortune
and some helpful thinking on the part of her father, she inherited
the title of Baroness Orsini of Filacciano — and took over his chapel
in Trinità dei Monti in Rome. Valone then argues that it was Elena
who changed the dedication and the decorative program — giv-
ing herself a prominent voice in the chapel and publicly staking her
claim to the Orsini name, as both her father and herself would be
entombed in this very chapel. Valone then explains how Elena’s se-
lection of scenes from the life of St. Helen, finder of the True Cross,
was especially significant in light of the female patron.
Through the lens of hindsight, one can see how Valone began to
uncover and define the voice of female patronage as differing from
male patronage, a theme that she continues to build upon in many
articles. She proved that women had their own motives, their own
resources and their own unique voice. How do women’s motives for
patronage differ from male patronage? Valone discussed this ques-
tion in “Matrons and Motives: Why Women Built in Early Modern
Rome.” One motive singled out and explained by Valone is that
Sforza women see Carolyn Valone, “Roman Matrons as Patrons: Varied View of
the Cloister Wall,” in The Crannied Wall:Women Religious and the Arts in Early Modern
Europe, ed. Craig Monson (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 1992), 49–72.
A reference to Valone’s article on Caterina Sforza can also be found in another
popular textbook: Stephen J. Campbell and Michael W. Cole, Italian Renaissance Art
(NewYork:Thames and Hudson, 2012), 663.
. Carolyn Valone, “Elena Orsini, Daniele da Volterra, and the Orsini Chapel,”
Artibus et historiae 22 (1990): 79–87; all information in this recap of Elena Orsini is
from this article.
. Carolyn Valone,“Women and the Oratorians in Early Modern Rome, ” Scritture,
carismi e istituzioni: Percorsi di vita religiosa in età moderna. Studi per Gabriella Zarri, ed.
Concetta Bianca, Adelisa Malena, Maria Pia Paoli and Anna Scattigno (Rome:
Edizioni di Storia e Letteratura, forthcoming); and Carolyn Valone,“Architecture as
Public Voice for Colonna Women in Rome, 1550–1620” (under review).
. Valone,“Matrons and Motives,” 317–35.
XV
Renaissance women, like women such as Dido of ancient Carthage

and Queen Artemisia of Halicarnassus, chose to pay for architec-
ture, often religious in nature but with a twist. For Valone’s matrons,
“well aware of their duty to commemorate their husbands…they
often did not hesitate to put their own wishes above their husbands’
instructions.” Valone presents eleven examples where women com-
missioned architectural projects to support radical reform in Rome,
especially in the years following the Council of Trent — including
buildings for the Jesuits, the Capuchins and the Foglianti — in com-
parison to men’s patronage usually focused on well-established and
traditional religious orders.
Valone’s female patrons have been recovered through documents,
decorative programs and, in many cases, the display of a scudo ac-
collato, an impaled coat of arms in which a woman may honor the
family crests of both her husband and her father. The father’s line is
displayed on the left (sinister) and the husband’s line is on the right
(dexter). In her 2000 Renaissance Quarterly article,Valone recognized
and clarified how women often used a scudo accollato as evidence of
their own patronage, just like men who usually only used their fa-
ther’s stemma. By processing the significance of the impaled coat of
arms,Valone furthered her course of how female patronage is often
different than their male counterparts. In her essay, Valone uses the
scudo accollato as evidence of patronage for the chapel and painting to
Portia dell’Anguillara, duchess of Cere.
Valone’s publications have influenced new generations of schol-
ars, and not just those seeking to restore the voice of female pa-
trons. Not every contributor in this volume works on women or
even patronage. Yet in these essays all authors have cited Valone as
an influential source for their own work. In that light, Valone’s in-
fluence on both scholars and methodology in the field of the arts
weaves a strong thread that unites the essays. With the volume, the
editors hoped to exhibit the vast influence that Valone has made
across many disciplines.To that end, another concept besides gender
or geography needed to be devised for organization and for clar-
ity. One common thread of Valone’s influence can be found in the
types of Renaissance personalities being discussed. Valone’s women,
. Valone,“Matrons and Motives,” 321.
. Carolyn Valone,“Mothers and Sons:Two Paintings for San Bonaventura in Early
Modern Rome,” Renaissance Quarterly 53 (2000): 108–32, at 112.
XVI
such as Fulvia Conti Sforza and Caterina de’Nobili Sforza, were al-
most all born into noble families. However, some ladies, although
still noble by birth, have been portrayed by Valone with such large
personalities and actions that they can best be described as notori-
ous, such as Vittoria della Tolfa who had the “last laugh,” as Valone
would say, “from the grave” since her Roman property reverted to
the Theatines even though the first Jesuit College was built on that
exact parcel of land. Therefore, the essays have been divided into
those dealing with the noble-born and those discussing the acts of
notorious persons as a means to explore people and their motives.
Noble vs Notorious
“And if I thought I was saying something new to us, I would cite many
people who, though of the most noble blood, have been wicked in the
extreme, and, on the other hand, many of humble birth who, through
their virtues, have won glory for their descendants.” — Baldassare
Castiglione, from the Book of the Courtier
It is true that the women and men of early modern Italy can be
described in both flattering and unflattering terms such as noble
and notorious — often with a fine line between them. Castiglione
pointed out that those of noble birth sometimes displayed ignoble
ways, while those of a lower status achieved a heightened standing
because of their virtuous acts. It is fair to say that, human nature be-
ing what it is, all possibilities in between these two surely also exist.
What happens when these terms are applied to the arts? Sometimes
the men and women commissioning, supporting or creating the arts
could be categorized as noble, usually meaning well-born and act-
ing in an admirable manner, while others fall under the heading of
notorious, sometimes meaning well-born but acting in an unfavor-
able manner. Those in the roles of patrons and artists include mar-
ried men, women and widows of the so-called noble class of titled
families, cardinals, princes, artists, queens and common women. This
volume will examine the individuals involved in commissioning and
in creating painting, sculpture, architecture, textiles and music in order
to understand the reasons and motives for their actions.The dividing
line between them may not be based on gender or status. Rather, the
. Carolyn Valone,“Piety and Patronage:Women and the Early Jesuits,” in Creative
Women in Early Modern Italy, ed. E. Ann Mater and John Coakley (Philadelphia:
University of Pennsylvania Press), 157–84, at 163.
XVII
essays that explore actions and arts relating to power, family and faith
will be deemed noble, while those actions and arts relating to circum-
stances of sex, greed and scandal will be deemed notorious.The essays
provide an intriguing, new look at how acts of patronage and artistic
production reveal the underlying noble virtues and/or notorious be-
haviors of the women and men who were responsible for the projects.
Thus the choices made by patrons and by artists during the creative
process help to define or to reveal something about the identities of
those involved. That women and men both commission and create
artworks to fashion their own identities has long been understood,
especially since Stephen Greenblatt’s seminal work in Renaissance Self-
Fashioning: From More to Shakespeare, first published in 1980. This ap-
proach provides a clarified view of human nature at work in the lives
of ordinary people in Italy who felt compelled or obligated to take
a role in artistic production during the early modern period. Within
each essay, the responsible agents of production will be investigated in
order to examine their acts as noble or notorious.
Part One. Noble Women and Men as Patrons of
Architecture: Family and Faith
This volume’s first section, entitled “Noble Women and Men as
Patrons of Architecture: Family and Faith,” presents eight essays that
explore, define and re-define early modern patronage of architec-
ture and music. Their strength lies in the strong pronouncement of
how the nobility used their financial resources to construct palaces,
chapels and music in order to express their identities about family
and faith. Reviewing and refining the motives for acts of patronage
has had a major role in early modern studies, especially since the
publication of Michael Baxandall’s Painting and Experience in Fifteenth
Century Italy. More specifically, the role of women as architectural
. Stephen Greenblatt, Renaissance Self-Fashioning: From More to Shakespeare

(Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1980), 1–9.
. Michael Baxandall,Painting and Experience in Fifteenth Century Italy (Oxford:Oxford
University Press, 1972), 2. For patronage studies, see also The Pontificate of Clement VII:
History, Politics and Culture, ed. Kenneth Gouwens and Sheryl E. Reiss (Aldershot:
Ashgate, 2005); Katherine A. McIver, Women, Art and Architecture in Northern Italy,
1520–1580: Negotiating Power (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2006); Patronage and Dynasty: The
Rise of the Della Rovere in Renaissance Italy, ed. Ian F. Verstegen (Kirksville, MO:Truman
State University Press, 2007); and Pamela M. Jones, Altarpieces and Their Viewers in the
Churches of Rome from Caravaggio to Guido Reni (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2008).
XVIII
patron, as women selecting the choices for layout and design of the
family palace, has long been recognized as a position of power. In
Carolyn Valone’s article,“Architecture as a Public Voice for Women in
Sixteenth-Century Rome,” she argued that women in Renaissance
Rome used architectural patronage to achieve this public voice; they
spoke about radical religious reform and the family, and often their
discourse differed from that of Renaissance men.
This section conveys the importance of both well-bred women
and men as noble participants in the commissioning and creating
the arts.The first three chapters by Brenda Preyer, Katherine McIver
and Kimberly Dennis convey specific female gender choices in the
building and use of palace spaces. Brenda Preyer examines one room
adjacent to the sala on the piano nobile in the Gianfigliazzi Palace
in Florence in Chapter 1. She argues that a Gianfigliazzi inventory
lists solely the wife’s furniture in this room, thus concluding that the
room is a gendered space for the wife. Preyer’s theory is well-sup-
ported with her comparisons to Boni-Antinori and the Pazzi pal-
aces. Her discovery rewrites the norm for Renaissance family life
and the assignment of rooms that suggested that the wife shared
the man’s camera or bedchamber. Preyer then interprets the events
— such as receiving guests upon the birth of children — as related
to the identity of the wife as an agent of female power within her
own spaces of a Florentine palazzo. In Chapter 2, Katherine McIver
presents a number of case studies outlining the variety of architec-
tural enterprises undertaken by women in Rome. Women in the
Eternal City, at almost all levels, had the power and ability to act as art
patrons – all they really needed was money. McIver situates woman
patrons of architecture into the larger context of artistic patronage
in Rome and considers how women could and did operate success-
fully within its urban fabric. In addition to primary source materials,
her overview of the scholarship helps to suggest that, while women
all over Italy were active as patrons of art and architecture, Rome
provided unique opportunities for women to express themselves and
to be recognized as powerful forces in their own right.Through the
patronage of architecture, prominent women could assert their place
in Roman social hierarchy, while at the same time glorifying their
family name. In Chapter 3, Kimberly Dennis focuses on Olimpia
Maidalchini Pamphili (1594–1657) the sister-in-law and longtime
. Carolyn Valone,“Architecture as Public Voice for Women in Sixteenth Century
Rome,” Renaissance Studies 15.3 (September 2001): 301–27.
XIX
companion of Pope Innocent X (1574–1655, pope 1644–55) and

her part in the construction of the Palazzo Pamphili (begun summer
1645) in Piazza Navona. Dennis has unearthed archival documents
confirming that, in fact, Olimpia directed the building of the Palazzo
Pamphili during the years of the greatest construction activity, 1647–
1650. Olimpia oversaw the work on the palazzo from beginning to
end and created a grandiose monument that celebrated the power of
the Pamphili in one of the city’s most magnificent squares. Her pa-
tronage demonstrates Olimpia’s commitment to the invaluable role
noble women played as members of preeminent families and also
assigns to Olimpia a greater role in the production of the Palazzo
Pamphili.
Of course, the voice of the noble, male patron should also be heard;
and Lisa Bauman’s study, Chapter 4, furthers the dialogue of patron-
age by addressing issues of architectural projects by the famous della
Rovere. Bauman’s essay offers an examination of della Rovere pal-
aces through the family members’ motives of how best to situate
their princely constructions within the framework of select streets
— important papal processional routes — and other princely palaces
in Rome. She addresses issues of patronal motives and messages, es-
pecially those of power and authority.
Power and authority are also examined in Sheila ffolliott’s essay
(Chapter 5), focusing on Queen Catherine de’Medici and her efforts,
working together with her artist, Antoine Caron, in creating a suitable
monument to promote Catherine’s image as a ruler after the death of
King Henri II of France. Both queen and artist relied on the historical
prototype of Artemisia II of Halicarnassus who built the Mausoleum
after her husband’s death. The strength of this essay lies in the noble
Catherine working with a male artist to devise an iconographic pro-
gram in a new monument. In doing so, Catherine and Antoine draw
on Artemisia’s own visual statements as an influence for the project.
ffolliott explores, in particular, the positioning and message of ancient
descriptions of female military triumphal images in which the female
protagonists relate to one another horizontally.
The final three chapters of this section reveal the noble acts of wid-
owed matrons, one chaste but married woman and many virgin nuns.
The common factors are their privileged birth to the noble class
and their involvement in the creation of the arts from a variety of
XX
perspectives: patron, subject and performer. Anne Jacobson Schutte’s

essay, Chapter 6 on widowed matrons as founders of religious orders,
is a unique study of the biographical documents of two women,
Ludovica Torelli and Eleonora Ramierez Montalvo. Schutte fervent-
ly studied the biographical accounts within the framework of Pope
Urban VIII’s new rules for regularizing vite for beatification and can-
onization purposes. Of significance, she compares and contrasts the
written lives in light of the writers’ strategies to stay within the newly
mandated papal rules.
In Chapters 7 and 8, various female religious are presented as pa-
trons of art and of music. Marilyn Dunn, in Chapter 7, argues that
even with the severe limitations of newly established reform prac-
tices for female religious after the Council of Trent (1545–1563),
nuns in Rome discovered a way to connect — through male agents
engaged as messengers and businessmen — to handle affairs outside
the convent walls in the name of the sisters. Dunn examines the re-
lationships of the nuns with the male agents as a way to discover the
invisible power of the nuns in asserting their own choices for artists
and projects carried out behind the cloistered walls.
Kimberlyn Montford in Chapter 8 supports the independent
working methods of female religious as in the previous essay, but her
focus is on the musical performances on patronal feasts and other
holy days that took place within the cloistered walls.These celebra-
tions included performances by male musicians who were invited
to contribute to the festivities. Although the nuns themselves never
left the confines of the cloister, the invited male musicians and audi-
ences of hundreds of people would fill the monastery church. Such
musical displays became demonstrations of the nuns’ spiritual lives
and devotions to their faith.
Part Two. Notorious Men and Women and the Arts:
Sex, Greed and Scandal
This volume’s second part explores actions and behaviors of art pa-
trons and artists involved in the creation of art and architecture as
well as actions and behaviors in subject matter. In his Wealth and the
Demand for Art in Italy, 1300–1600 Richard A. Goldthwaite stated
that “historians have taken it as virtually a law of social behavior
throughout the history of medieval and early modern Europe that
wealthy non-nobles imitate the ways of the nobility and seek to
XXI
enter into its ranks.” This, Goldthwaite deemed, is social emulation.

Sometimes the non-nobles achieve success, such as in the example
of Sister Domenica who built and founded a convent in Florence.
In the case of the courtesan Fiammetta, perhaps born of a prostitute
but who achieved great wealth through her own talents, she would
always remain notorious by reputation. In other examples, the person
may be well-born but conduct himself in an ignoble manner, as in
the case of Archbishop Alfonso Paleotti, who instituted anti-music
initiatives against all musical performances in Bologna. “Notorious,”
therefore, is a term usually applied to the actions or behaviors under
investigation. If those actions involve sex, greed or scandal, then the
person will never truly escape the label of notorious!
Chapter 9 is entitled “A Monster’s Plea.” In this essay Suzanne
Butters presents a rare look into the unkind standards and practices
towards Christofaro Tagliare, who labelled himself a monster and
was most likely born with a physical disability. On 14 August 1583
Christofaro wrote a letter to the region’s princely ruler, Francesco
I de’ Medici, grand duke of Tuscany (r.1574–87) pleading for help.
His letter reveals his mistreatment at the hands of his keeper, who
used beatings and cruel behavior against him. Butters builds a context
within which to examine the letter, the “monster” and images of
persons with genetic variances in early modern Europe.
In Chapter 10, Meghan Callahan discusses Sister Domenica Da
Paradiso, humble in birth and upbringing, who founded and built
the convent of la Crocetta in Florence using her own connections,
piety and determination. As a women and Dominican, Sr. Domenica
would not have been allowed to preach publicly. Yet through her
following of wealthy male Florentines, she was able to build a con-
vent, complete with church, so that she would have a suitable place
to preach. Her actions and reputation far exceeded even her own
expectations for success — notorious because of her unprecedented
rise from her humble background to individual, gendered triumph.
Whereas Sr. Domenica facilitated her rise to success by utilizing
her strengths as a nun who lived as a virgin, the case of the courte-
san Fiammetta is best seen on the opposite side of the spectrum as
one who used her physical charms to achieve what she wanted. In
. Richard A. Goldthwaite, Wealth and the Demand for Art in Italy, 1300–1600
(Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1993), 3.
XXII
Chapter 11, Cynthia Stollhans examines the last will of Fiammetta

in conjunction with her funerary chapel in the Roman church of
Sant’Agostino. Fiammetta accumulated substantial wealth in the legal
sex-trade conducted in Rome but spent her money on projects in
ways that echoed those of pious, noble women of sixteenth-century
Rome. Despite her desire for a funerary chapel — complete with
painted references to saints and the promise of salvation — her fame
will always be defined in history by her occupation.
A violent act of rape has done much to color the identity of the artist
Artemisia Gentileschi. However, utilizing letters written by this non-
elite artist to her well-bred lover Francesco Maria Maringhi, in Chapter
12 Elizabeth Cohen focuses on what Artemisia reveals about herself
and her thoughts. This essay will help to shape our understanding of
Artemisia’s own views about her sexuality as a wife and as a mistress.
The writings of the artist Benvenuto Cellini are interpreted by
Michael Sherberg in Chapter 13. Cellini wrote his own autobi-
ography sometime after the famous biographies of Michelangelo
Buonarotti by Giorgio Vasari and Ascanio Condivi in which
Michelangelo was duly praised, if not deified. Cellini took excep-
tion to the lavish and sometimes absurd approaches of Vasari and
Condivi. Sherberg argues that Cellini took the approach of present-
ing his conflicts and struggles to gain recognition, thus turning to
scandalous events of his own life to retaliate against the previous
types of art-historical writings.
Through the scandalous but acceptable practice of nepotism,
Alfonso Paleotti attached his career to that of his famous uncle,
Cardinal Gabriele Paleotti, and landed the office of archbishop
of Bologna. As Craig Monson reveals in Chapter 14, Archbishop
Paleotti set about organizing anti-music initiatives aimed at enforcing
grave limitations on all sacred music, which was unfortunate for con-
vent musicians. Paleotti’ actions were regarded as unnecessary; nuns,
nobles, and members of the papal legate fought back by writing peti-
tions to the Roman Congregation of Bishops and Regulars. Bishop
Paleotti would never have won a popularity contest, nor would he
ever wear the red hat of a cardinal, like his esteemed uncle.
Perhaps notorious for being foreign-born in Carthage, Queen
Dido will forever be remembered as the doomed love of Aeneas.
In Chapter 15, Gretchen Meyers offers an innovative approach to
XXIII
the understanding of Virgil’s literary depictions of Dido as a weaver

of garments. Although Greek heroines such as Penelope and Helen
are well-known for their weaving skills, this is not the case for Dido.
Meyers shows that for Dido,Virgil did, indeed, highlight this skill in a
way that developed a traditional Roman female identity for her, one
that would resonate with the audience of Roman women.
The final chapter in this volume is written by Elissa Weaver and ex-
amines Giovanni Boccaccio’s special attention to fashion and cloth-
ing in the Decameron. Boccaccio not only writes about clothing in
detail, he also dressed his characters fashionably and appropriately
–— and if they were not, then he criticized, sometimes humiliated,
them for their failure to do so. Clothes had an exchange value, rep-
resenting the financial means of those who wore them and the bad
fortunes of those who lose them.Weaver discusses Boccaccio’s verbal
and visual representations of fourteenth-century fashions and their
meaning for the Decameron’s stories.
A complete listing of articles and book chapters written by Carolyn
Valone follow these essays.
One Sad Note
On a sad note, Barbara Sparti passed away in June 2013, before she
could complete her promised essay, “Antiochus and Stratonice from
Textual to Visual Image,” which began as a conference paper and
evolved into a scholarly essay. Sparti was examining this fatal love
story from ancient Greece as represented on two mid-fifteenth cen-
tury Tuscan wedding chests or cassone. For Barbara Sparti, the cassone
allowed her to look at the wedding celebrations and dancing activi-
ties in comparison to contemporary dance treatises and other images.
She was a noted dance historian, after all, and it is with regret that
we cannot include at least the conference paper here. Carolyn and
Barbara had a special and enduring friendship that came about at the
1999 death of a mutual friend, Franca Camiz. Barbara’s contribution
would have been a celebration of friendship.
XXIV
Part I: noble men and women
as patrons of architecture:
power and faith
•
The “Wife’s Room” in Florentine Palaces of the
Fifteenth and Sixteenth Centuries
Brenda Preyer
In this initial survey of the “wife’s room” in Florence I hope to open
up the question, rarely explored, of special spaces in Florentine palaces
where the wife of the palace’s owner resided. No certain statements
can be made, and hypotheses must be developed from inventories of
palaces, from the wills of the owners and from plans of the primo piano,
where the principal living quarters invariably were located. While the
documents of course will be important for me, the true basis of my
study are the plans of the palaces themselves, where sometimes I find
“extra rooms,” that is, rooms that are in prominent positions near the sala
but that do not appear to belong to a true suite. If indeed these spaces
were intended for the wife, the size, location and relationship with other
spaces can be seen to indicate something about her position within
the family group.The data that I have assembled, which can be only a
random sample of what might be available, are suggestive: it is possible
to conclude that in the 1460s a new space that we can see on the plans
of several palaces may have been used by the wife, while in a number of
further cases we have inventories that tell us of the existence of a “camera
di monna X.” At the end of the article, the question of the use of the
room will lead to a consideration of the participation by wives and wid-
ows in the running not only of the household but of other family affairs.
Susanne Kress’s article about the wife’s room uses an approach
different from mine, first laying out references in inventories and
libri di ricordi to the spaces occupied by women, and then refer-
ring to images and documents to try to conjure up some of
the ways a separate space for the wife might have functioned,
especially in connection with childbirth. While Kress discussed
. As usual, I am indebted and grateful to Gabriella Battista for help with the tran-
scriptions of documents and for counsel on other matters. All archival references are
to material in the Archivio di Stato, Florence, with the abbreviation Not. antecos. for
the books in the Notarile antecosimiano.
. Susanne Kress, “Frauenzimmer der Florentiner Renaissance und ihre
Ausstattung: Eine erste ‘Spurensuche,’” in Das Frauenzimmer: Die Frau bei Hofe
in Spätmittelalter und früher Neuzeit 6. Symposium der Residenzen-Kommission der
Akademie der Wissenschaften in Göttingen, ed. Jan Hirschbiegel and Werner Paravicini
(Stuttgart: Jan Thorbecke, 2000), 91–113. I thank Gert Jan van der Sman for telling
me of this article and making a photocopy available.

Fig. 1. Plan of the primo piano of the Medici Palace, 1650. Selected rooms labeled according to the
inventory of 1492. North is to the right.
primarily the use, also by the wife, of the camera of the man,
and the room’s furnishings, notably those related to marriage, I
am more interested in bringing to the fore in specific palaces a
separate room for the wife. However, at the end of this article,
I too shall turn to the man’s camera principale, though from a sig-
nificantly different point of view.
The classic scheme of the main suite in a Florentine palace was
elucidated forty-five years ago by Wolfger Bulst, who showed that on
the piano nobile of the Medici Palace, at the top of the stairs, was the
entrance to the sala, the great reception room, where banquets and
formal celebrations took place (Fig. 1).  The next room of the main
suite was the camera of the head of household, another large space
filled with imposing furniture. Associated with the camera and always
following it, the anticamera was much smaller but contained similar
. While Kress interpreted the mention in the inventory (1424) of Agnolo Da
Uzzano of the “camera d’in su la sala detta la camera di monna Bonda” as an early
instance of a separate room for Agnolo’s wife, to the contrary I think that she
had moved already to the rooms assigned to her in her husband’s will; see Kress,
“Frauenzimmer,” 96, and the will in Not. antecos., 10518, Guardiano di Andrea,
fol. 110v.
. Wolfger A. Bulst, “Die ursprüngliche innere Aufteilung des Palazzo Medici,”
Mitteilungen des Kunsthistorischen Institutes in Florenz 14 (1970): 369–92, at 378–79 and
fig. 4.

Brenda Preyer • The ‘Wife’s Room’
furniture. Finally, sometimes there

was a scrittoio, a private study that
also often held valuables. Such
suites are found in innumerable
palaces, though of course with
variations due to the configura-
tions of the sites. Especially close
to the Medici example were the
main suites of the Gianfigliazzi
and the Tornabuoni palaces, where
the rooms of the suite were lined
up along the facade (Figs. 2 left,
3 below); the same components,
sometimes differently arranged,
existed at all the other palaces
Fig. 2. Plan of the primo piano of the treated in this article.
Gianfigliazzi Palace. Spaces labeled according Where was the palace owner’s
to the inventory of 1485 (reconstruction by wife in this scheme? There is no
Matthew Haberling).
doubt that in the first half of the
fifteenth century an upper-class Florentine husband and wife shared
the same room, despite the existence of an oft-cited passage in Leon
Battista Alberti’s De Re Aedificatoria. Writing of villas, though his
words have been held also to be applicable to city dwellings, Alberti
stated:“The husband and wife must have separate bedrooms, not only
to ensure that the husband be not disturbed by his wife, when she
is about to give birth or is ill, but also to allow them, even in sum-
mer, an uninterrupted night’s sleep, whenever they wish. Each room
should have its own door, and in addition a common side door, to
enable them to seek each other’s company unnoticed.” Alberti’s
. The prefix “anti” signifies “next to,” giving the word “anticamera” a very different
sense from “antecamera.”
. ”Viro atque uxori dormitio singulis singula debetur; non id modo ut parturiens
aut malfata mulier molesta viro non sit, verum et aestivos etiam somnos illesiores per-
agat, cum lubuerit. Sua cuique aderit ianua, et praeter id commune aderit posticulum,
quo mutuo se possint petere sine interprete”: Leon Battista Alberti, L’architettura, ed.
Giovanni Orlandi (Milan: Edizioni il Polifilo, 1966), 1:427; the English translation is tak-
en from Leon Battista Alberti, On the Art of Building inTen Books, trans. Joseph Rykwert,
Neil Leach and Robert Tavernor (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1988), 149. Peter
Thornton, The Italian Renaissance Italian Interior, 1400–1600 (London:Weidenfeld and
Nicolson, 1991), 288, stated that a man and his wife normally had separate bedrooms.

Fig. 3. Plan of the primo piano of the Tornabuoni Palace in 1498 (reconstruction); spaces labeled
according to the inventory of that year (Caterina D’Amelio).
recommendation applied to princely houses elsewhere in Italy, not
to those in Florence in the first half of the fifteenth century, though
we shall see that a slow movement towards the situation he described
seems to have developed.
The evidence that a man shared his camera with his wife comes
mainly from inventories and wills.The inventory taken in 1417 of the
Medici “casa vecchia” lists in the camere of Giovanni di Bicci, and of
his sons Cosimo and Lorenzo, items belonging to the men and also
to their wives. Men’s wills sometimes allude clearly to the fact that
the couple shared the same camera: in 1438 Bernardo di Uguccione
Lippi left to his wife “the use of the camera of said testator and said
lady, with all the furnishings and clothing existing in said camera.”
Similarly, in 1463 Manno Temperani left to his wife “the camera in
which at present said testator has been sleeping for a long time and
. Inventari Medicei 1417–1465: Giovanni di Bicci, Cosimo e Lorenzo di Giovanni, Piero
di Cosimo, ed. Marco Spallanzani (Florence: Associazione ‘Amici del Bargello’ 1996),
4–31. See also the study of the Medici casa vecchia by Howard Saalman and Philip
Mattox,“The First Medici Palace,” Journal of the Society of Architectural Historians 44
(1985): 329–45.
. “dominam usufructuariam camere dicti testatoris et dicte domine cum omnibus
fulcimentis et pannis in dicta camera existentibus” (Not. antecos., 12074, Lorenzo di
Francesco di Michele, under date 1438, 22 July).

lived together (with her), and he assigned said camera to her for her
use for as long as she should live, with all the furnishings….”
An alternative was proposed by Bulst, who argued on the ba-
sis of a letter of 1472 that Clarice Orsini, the wife of Lorenzo the
Magnificent, lived in the main anticamera at the front of the palace;
and from the inventory of 1492, he concluded that the anticamera
in the suite on the opposite side of the building, above the garden,
also was used by a woman, the wife of Lorenzo’s son Piero. It is
possible also that at the Tornabuoni Palace, on the evidence of the
inventory made in 1498, the two anticamere [3, 6] of the suite of
Giovanni Tornabuoni’s son, Lorenzo, housed his first wife, Giovanna
degli Albizzi, and then his second wife, Ginevra Gianfigliazzi (Fig.
3). Support perhaps is given to both hypotheses by the facts that
at Palazzo Medici the anticamera of Piero di Lorenzo contained a
portrait of his wife, Alfonsina, just as in the second anticamera (the
“chamera del palcho d’oro” [3]) of Lorenzo Tornabuoni was a portrait
of Giovanna degli Albizzi. A third example regarding an anticam-
era may be the room of the widow of Piero da Gagliano. In 1463,
just two weeks after Piero’s death, the inventory of his house lists on
. “reliquit et legavit cameram in qua ad presens dictus testator per lungum tempus
dormivit et cum et insimul stetit, et eidem dictam cameram in dicto casu deputavit
pro suo usu donec et quamdiu vixerit, cum omnibus fulcimentis, videlicet lectiera,
lectuccio, forzerettis et forzieri existentibus in dicta camera, et cum pannis…” (Not.
antecos., 18452, Antonio di Salamone, fol. 176v).
. Bulst, “Aufteilung,” 389–90; idem, “Uso e trasformazione del palazzo Mediceo
fino ai Riccardi,” in Il palazzo Medici Riccardi di Firenze, ed. Giovanni Cherubini and
Giovanni Fanelli (Florence: Giunti, 1990), 98–129, at 114.
. As suggested by Susanne Kress, “Die camera di Lorenzo, bella im Palazzo
Tornabuoni: Rekonstruktion und künstlerische Ausstattung eines Florentiner
Hochzeitszimmers des späten Quattrocento,” in Domenico Ghirlandaio: Künstlerische
Konstruktion von Identität im Florenz der Renaissance, ed. Michael Rohlmann (Weimar:
Verlag und Datenbank für Geisteswissenschaften, 2003), 245–85, at 263. See also
Brenda Preyer, “Palazzo Tornabuoni in 1498: A Palace ‘In Progress’ and Its Interior
Arrangements,” Mitteilungen des Kunsthistorischen Institutes in Florenz (forthcoming).
. I once thought that Lorenzo’s “camera bella” (2) may have been designed for
GiovanniTornabuoni’s wife, Francesca di Luca Pitti, whom he married in 1466, when
he was beginning to build the palace, and who died in 1477. But the complex appa-
ratus of other spaces connected with this room, together with the fact that the palace
frequently was the guesthouse for foreign visitors to Florence, has led me to conclude
that the southern wing was envisioned initially to accommodate such guests. For the
Medici and Tornabuoni examples, see also Kress,“Frauenzimmer,” 97–99.

the primo piano a sala, a “chamera di detta sala a’ lato all’aquaio,” then
the “chamera di Monna Ginevra,” complete with a bed and a lettuccio
as large (almost 3 meters) as those in the other camera. With no
anticamera listed, this could well signify that Ginevra was in fact in
that room. Nevertheless, I have not seen other plausible cases of the
anticamera being the wife’s room.
To return to the sharing of the camera principale by the husband
and wife, we should reflect on the room’s character. Certainly, as
innumerable studies have shown, most of the furniture and decora-
tion was put in when the man married, and Isabelle Chabot has
made the case that the room was the man’s in every sense, especially
after even the cassoni, which previously had been contributed by the
bride’s family, came to be commissioned by him. Perhaps because
most of the documentation regarding this type of room dates from
the period of marriage, Kress regularly calls it the “camera nuziale.”
But a camera principale was never just a camera nuziale, even in
the beginning of a marriage, not to speak of twenty or thirty years
later. Just as it should not be thought of simply as a “bedroom,”
we limit our understanding of it if we think of the marriage over-
tones as necessarily carrying over a long period. In simple terms,
the room functioned as the center of all the man’s activities in the
house. I have made this case elsewhere, and here I shall make it
again. Bulst assembled a varied group of references to individu-
als and groups of men visiting Cosimo de’ Medici and also his son
Piero, in their camere. Regarding important meetings, in 1432 the
executors of Ilarione de’ Bardi’s will appeared before a judge in
the camera principale of Ilarione’s palace, now Palazzo Canigiani.
Sixty years later, again in the Medici Palace, the French ambassador
was allowed to eavesdrop from the anticamera upon a conversation
between the Milanese ambassador and Piero di Lorenzo de’ Medici
. Not. antecos., 388, Andrea di Agnolo da Terranuova, fols. 113v–114r.
. Isabelle Chabot, La dette des familles: Femmes, lignage et patrimoine à Florence aux
XIVe et XVe siècles (Rome: École Française de Rome, 2011), 195–259.
. Brenda Preyer, ”Planning for Visitors at Florentine Palaces,” Renaissance Studies
12 (1998): 357–74, at 362–63; idem,“The Florentine Casa,” in At Home in Renaissance
Italy, ed. Marta Ajmar-Wollheim and Flora Dennis (London: Victoria and Albert
Museum, 2006), 34–49, at 44–45.
. Bulst,“Uso e trasformazione,” 110–11.
. Not. antecos., 8778, Niccolò Gentiluzzi, fol. 2r.

in the latter’s camera. Frequently notaries came to these rooms

to draw up legal acts in the presence of the principals and wit-
nesses. For example, in 1469 the camera of Bongianni Gianfigliazzi
in his Lungarno palace was the place where the document for par-
titioning the family’s older Torre Palace was written. In the same
year, the camera of Lorenzo de’ Medici was the site of the sale to
Francesco Nori of a large palace on via de’ Neri; in addition to the
notary, four of the owners, four witnesses and Nori himself all were
present.And in 1472 Jacopo Pazzi, arbitrating a dispute among his
dead brother Piero’s six sons, pronounced his sentence “in the cam-
era of the house of said arbitrator.” Finally, inventories allude to a
wide variety of interests and activities in connection with camere:
when he died in 1478, in addition to the standard bed and lettuccio,
Francesco Nori’s contained more than forty books in Italian and
French, several paintings, a device for loading a crossbow, a nautical
map, a few pieces of cutlery, a table for writing, items of clothing
and account books for construction and household expenses.
Recognizing the wide use to which a man put his camera opens
us to envisioning conflicts when the room also housed the wife.
Did she have to go in and out depending on who came to talk
to her husband? Where would she have gone? What about child-
birth? For difficult pregnancies it seems impossible that she could
have occupied the room for long periods of time. So far, we have
no answers to these questions. Also, we should wonder about the
setting for the ceremonial receiving of guests upon the birth of chil-
dren. As Jacqueline Musacchio has shown, visits of this type are well
documented with regard to gifts, the provision of food and drink,
even special lighting for the occasion, though the room itself is dif-
ficult to identify. Giovanni Buoninsegni, a week after the birth of his
. Bartolomeo Cerretani, Storia fiorentina, ed. Giuliana Berti (Florence: Olschki,
1994), 188.
. Brenda Preyer, “Around and in the Gianfigliazzi Palace in Florence:
Developments on lungarno Corsini in the 15th and 16th Centuries,” Mitteilungen
des Kunsthistorischen Institutes in Florenz 48 (2004): 55–104, at 61–62 and doc. 13 (Not.
antecos., 21064, Nastagio Vespucci, inserto 4, fol. 204).
. Not. antecos., 10187, Simone Grazzini, fols. 20r–20v.
. “in camera domus dicti arbitri”: Not. antecos., 235, Giovanni Battista Albizzi,
fols. 82v-86v.
. Magistrato dei pupilli avanti il principato, 174, fols. 229v–230r.

first child in 1471, referred to the “two lamps with three candles to
be kept lit in front of the Virgin Mary on the day that the women
came to see Lena (his wife) in childbirth.” Buoninsegni implies that
there was just one such visit, and considering that much of his book
up to this point was devoted to the outfitting of “la chamera mia,”
the women probably went to the camera principale, though frequent
intrusions like this would have posed problems for the man in this,
his “residence.” And using the anticamera for these visits would not
solve the problem, as reaching it would require the visiting women
and the servants carrying the refreshments to troop first through the
camera principale. Thus there certainly seems good reason for de-
signing living spaces with separate quarters for the wife.
My own point of departure for wondering about the wife’s room
came when I was working on the Gianfigliazzi Palace, built about
1460, and I realized that it had, in addition to the main camera, an-
other large room next to the sala (Fig. 2).Among the items consigned
in 1511 to the wife of the palace’s owner, who had not died but had
become demented, were a bed and four cassoni to be removed from
the “camera di mezzo,” called in the inventory of 1485 the “camera della
stufa,” which could only be this room. (While the term “camera di
mezzo” refers to the room’s location, I have no explanation for the
other name.) The room had doors opening to the sala, to the camera
principale and to the hallway at the north and thence to the saletta or
salotto (a room smaller than the sala, which was used for less formal
eating and often was located nearer the kitchen). On the basis of the
furniture and the location next to the sala and to the camera prin-
cipale, I concluded that this space was designed as the room for the
wife of the palace’s owner. Nevertheless, with regard to this palace
and also to several others, we need always to consider an alternative
use for such a room: as the camera of a brother of the principal own-
er, who would have been in the camera principale.Very probably that
. “2 torchietti chon 3 chandele per tenere aciesi alla Vergine Maria el dì che lle
donne vennono a vedere la Lena in parto” (Corporazioni soppressi dal governo
francese, 102, 356, fol. 28 right), a reference from Jacqueline Marie Musacchio, The
Art and Ritual of Childbirth in Renaissance Italy (New Haven:Yale University Press,
1999), 185 n. 72.
. For this material and for reference to the documents, see Preyer, “Gianfigliazzi
Palace,” 80–81. For the important point regarding the door between the “camera
della stufa/di mezzo” and the sala, see Doc. 23, fol. 4v in the listing for the sala:“una
dipintura sopra l’u[s]ccio di chamera di mezzo.”

Fig. 4. Plan of the primo piano of the Pazzi Palace (reconstruction); spaces labeled according to an
inventory of 1626 (Caterina D’Amelio).
was not the case here — at least initially — as the palace, nominally
started for a naturalized Sienese, was sold half-built to a Gianfigliazzi
man who had no children, and whose own brother lived separately
from him. But already in the inventory for the latter brother in
1485, made two months after his death, his wife — stepmother to
the two heirs — had moved upstairs, to the “chamera di Madonna,”
and it is possible that the room below now housed the younger son.
Another example of a probable room for the wife can be seen on the
plan of the Pazzi Palace, also built in the 1460s (Fig. 4). Jacopo Pazzi
and his wife Maddelena Serristori had no children, though Jacopo
had an natural daughter; and his brothers both were installed in their
own houses. As at the Gianfigliazzi Palace, the room in question (14)
was large and located adjacent to the man’s camera (16) and also to
sala (13); thus its size and its relationship to other rooms gave it a
weight similar to that of the all-important camera principale. And
in both these cases, the room was closer to the salotto (12) and to
. Preyer,“Gianfigliazzi Palace,” 63–66.

. Brenda Preyer,“Non solo facciate: Dentro i palazzi Pazzi, Lenzi e Ridolfi Guidi,”
Opus Incertum 4 (2008): 6–17, at 10–11. Figure 4 is labeled in accordance with the
inventory of 1626 in Magistrato dei Pupilli del Principato, 783, fols. 1124r–1125r.

Fig. 5. Plan of the eastern half of the primo piano of the palace of Alberto di Zanobi, later of
Francesco Nori (Giuseppe Medici, 1766).
the kitchen. If the spaces in these two palaces were not designed for
the wives when the palace was built, I do not know for whom they
might have been intended.
A different set of relationships among camera principale, sala, and
possible wife’s room existed at the palace where Francesco Nori lived
before he was murdered in the cathedral during the Pazzi Conspiracy
(Fig. 5).This is a second example in which good plans can be coordi-
nated with an inventory, which starts with an “anticamera nuova” and
the “camera di detta anticamera in su la sala,” going then to the “anticha-
mera della chamera vecchia” and the “chamera in sulla sala.” Some back-
ground is necessary in order to understand where these rooms were.
In 1469 Nori bought a palace comprising the western two-thirds of
the block, he acquired more property towards the east and he began
remodeling on this side. The expanded palace was divided into two
properties in 1489.The plan in Figure 5 shows only the eastern half
with part of the sala, which belonged to the western portion and
which lay in the middle of the facade with a total of four bays; the
. Brenda Preyer, “The ‘chasa overo palagio’ of Alberto di Zanobi: A Florentine
Palace of about 1400 and its later Remodeling,” The Art Bulletin 65 (1983): 387–401,
at 398–99. For the plan, one of a beautiful set, see Gian Luigi Maffei, La casa fiorentina
nella storia della città dalle origini all’Ottocento (Venice: Marsiglio, 1990), 130–34. The
inventory is in Magistrato dei Pupilli avanti il principato, 174, fols. 229r–233v.

first camera mentioned in the inventory is the room next to the sala
labeled “anticamera,” while the new anticamera is the “camera” be-
hind; (conventions in the naming of rooms changed in the two hun-
dred years that separated the inventory from the plans.) The “chamera
vecchia” lay in the half of the palace not shown on the plan, on the
other side of the sala in the southwestern corner of the building. It is
clear from their contents — men’s clothing, a great number of books,
many in French, arms, building books (“quaderni della spesa della mu-
raglia”) — that the western camera and anticamera were Francesco’s,
so perhaps his wife, Costanza di Filippo Tornabuoni, was in the two
other rooms. (Francesco had a young son who had recently been
legitimized but no other children, although his wife was pregnant
when he died; and no other family members lived on this floor.) The
contents of the eastern rooms perhaps confirm the hypothesis: in the
anticamera were “two beautiful painted chests” with a painted spall-
iera above them, and a quantity of men’s and women’s fine clothing,
much of it Flemish or French in style.The level of luxury points to
an important occupant, although nothing makes us sure of the gen-
der. This arrangement has a fundamental difference from that at the
Gianfigliazzi and Pazzi palaces, for the two camere were on opposite
sides of the sala and thus not in direct communication; we shall see
this to have been the case also in some other palaces. It is quite pos-
sible that when the early palace was built the camere were destined
for the owner’s two sons — almost certainly in the original scheme
of about 1400 the second one was not planned for the man’s wife.
Two inventories of buildings for which I know of no plans also tell
us of the existence of rooms for the wife of the deceased owner. In
1464, upon the death of messer Piero de’ Pazzi, an inventory was tak-
en of items in his palace in town and his villa of Trebbio, near Sieci to
the east of Florence.Though the inventory in some ways is puzzling,
and sorting out which parts refer to which building presents prob-
lems, in two places there are mentions of a “camera di Madonna”
(Fiametta di Bernardo Giugni, the widow and the mother of the
eleven children who survived their father), followed by the relative
anticamera. I have come to the conclusion that the first part of the in-
ventory, which includes a “cassa degli arienti,” a “camera terrena di messer
Benedetto” (Accolti, the chancellor of Florence), and furniture with
intarsia decoration, refers to the palace at the corner of Borgo degli
Albizzi and via Giraldi, just east of Piero’s brother Jacopo’s more

Fig. 6. Plan of the primo piano of the Gondi Palace (Enrico Au Capitaine, 1867); spaces labeled
according to the division of 1537. Photo Andrea Lensini. North is to the right.
famous palace on via del Proconsolo. The repetition of the wife’s
rooms would refer to Trebbio, less richly furnished; in this part of the
inventory are mentioned a “camera di sopra dove dorme uno fattore” and
at the end, “una cappella” (Trebbio has a chapel). Unfortunately, the
relationship of the wife’s room in the city palace to the sala and to
the “camera di Messere” is not articulated.
The first four rooms in the inventory of the house of another fa-
mous Florentine,Tommaso Portinari, who died in 1501, are listed in
this logical sequence:Tommaso’s own camera, the anticamera that he
shared with his wife, his wife’s camera, the sala nearby (“Im prima
nella chamera della chasa della abitatione di decto Tommaso dove
lui era consueto stare,” “Item nella antichameruza contra alla camera
decta e di monna Maria,” “Item nella chamera di monna Maria sua
donna in decta casa,” ”Item nella sala in decta casa”). As always,
. The inventory (shared with me many years ago by Howard Saalman and
Anthony Molho) and other acts regarding the estate are in Not. antecos., 388,
Andrea di ser Agnolo da Terranuova, fols. 174r–198r (mod.). I think that fols. 174r–
176r, 192r–194v refer to the city palace, fols. 180r–181r to Trebbio. I am grateful to
Amanda Lillie for discussing this inventory with me, although our views about it did
not always coincide.
. Not. antecos., 6094, Paolo Dieciaiuti, fols. 5r–6r. I learned of this inventory from
Louis Alexander Waldman, “New Documents for Memling’s Portinari Portraits in

Tommaso’s camera principale would have been next to the sala, and
the order in which the rooms are listed in the inventory suggests that
so too was Maria’s camera.
After the two cases in which we have only inventories to indicate
the existence of rooms for the wife, we can return to questions of
the location and character of such rooms by examining the plans of
the primo piano of two famous palaces that have “extra rooms.” A
document laying out the division in 1537 of the Gondi Palace and
surrounding properties among Giuliano Gondi’s grandsons has been
used recently by Linda Pellecchia to clarify the plan (Fig. 6). Of
special interest to us is the very precise language regarding some of
the spaces to be included in one of the portions: “salotto posto sul
primo piano di detto palazzo con la camera che confina con la sala
grande,” referring to the salotto at the southwest corner of the palace
and to the camera between that room and the sala at the front. The
stipulation that the door between this camera and the sala be closed
not only makes us certain of the location of the camera but is sug-
gestive in light of the similarity with the plans of Gianfigliazzi and
Pazzi palaces. Even though the room was some distance from the
camera principale at the northeast corner, I would conclude that this
camera at the Gondi Palace may have been designed for Giuliano’s
wife, if she was still alive; alternatively, the room was for one of his
many sons.
Also at the Borgherini Palace, started by Salvi Borgherini a
few years before he died in 1510 and continued by his elder son
Pierfrancesco, both the main suite and the room that may have been
the Metropolitan Museum of Art,” Apollo 153 (2001): 28–33. In my opinion, the
Portinari portaits were not in the volta, which signifies a basement in Florentine
inventories; rather, the entry for them was added as an afterthought at the end of the
inventory, just like the listing for Tommaso’s scrittoio that follows (fol. 7v).
. Linda Pellecchia,“The Palace of Giuliano Gondi and Giuliano da Sangallo,” in
Gondi: A Florentine Dynasty and its Palazzo, ed. Gabriele Morolli and Paolo Fiumi
(Florence: Polistampa, 2013), 88–125, at 120–25.This beautiful book is published with
Italian and English texts. I am grateful to Linda Pellecchia for providing me with the
high-quality image for Figure 6.
. Pellecchia,“Palace of Giuliano Gondi,” 122–23.
. I have been unable to discover the date of death of Antonia di Lorenzo di
Ranieri Scolari, whom Gondi married in 1460 and who was dead when he wrote
his will in 1501.The palace was begun in 1489.

Fig. 7. Plan of the primo piano of the Borgherini Palace in the sixteenth century (reconstruction,
Giampaolo Trotta). North is to the bottom.
that of Margherita Acciaiuoli, Pierfrancesco’s wife, were adjacent to
the sala, but they were not next to each other (Fig. 7). The suite, at
the right on the plan, comprised a camera, anticamera and scrittoio,
and it lay directly across from the other large room; the doorways to
both camere line up and still have their impressive stone frames. In
contrast to the reconstruction shown in Figure 7, the eastern camera
was not planned to go with the long narrow space further east, which
belonged to the small house next door that was bought only in 1517
and sometimes was used by the palace owners, sometimes was rented
out. Also, the doorway shown in the south wall of the camera was
cut through at a later date, and thus the room did not communicate
directly with the southern part of the palace either. My question, as
always, is: following one of the possible patterns for a wife’s room,
is this such a one? Although Allan Braham suggested that the east
room was Pierfrancesco’s famous “bedroom,” I disagree. Because it
is not part of the palace’s one proper suite, I would conclude that it
. Observation by Giampaolo Trotta in Gli antichi chiassi tra Ponte Vecchio e Santa
Trinita: Storia del rione dei Santi Apostoli, dai primi insediamenti romani alle ricostruzioni
postbelliche (Florence: Messaggerie Toscane, 1992), 167.
. In contrast to the palace proper there is no vaulting under the narrow space. See
the plans in Trotta, Antichi chiassi, 175.
. Allan Braham,“The Bed of Pierfrancesco Borgherini,” The Burlington Magazine
121 (1979): 754–65.

Fig. 8. Plan of the primo piano of the Corsi-Horne Palace (Fani Revithiadu).
may have been Margherita’s room. If we choose to believe Vasari’s
report of her statement that the bed in Pierfrancesco’s camera was
the “letto delle mie nozze,” Salvi may have intended the eastern room
for his younger son, Giovanni, who perhaps even lived there until
in 1529 he moved with his wife to the former house of Francesco
Sassetti. In this case, Margherita would have started to use the room
not as a young bride in about 1515, but some fourteen years later.
A final example, the Palazzo Corsi-Horne (c.1500), has many anom-
alies in its plan due to the small site and the desire of the builder
nevertheless to have a house with grand proportions (Fig. 8). But in
the light of what we have seen so far, the twin camere on the piano
nobile are intriguing. Claudio Paolini suggested in 1994 that the north
camera was probably for the wife of the owner, a possibility that I did
not consider in my book about the palace published the year before.
. Le opere di Giorgio Vasari, ed. Gaetano Milanesi (Florence: Sansoni, 1906), 6:262–
63. In 2006 I proposed a reconstruction of the paintings in the corner room (Preyer,
“Florentine casa,” 42–44), an effort of which Robert La France was somewhat skep-
tical: Robert G. La France, Bachiacca: Artist of the Medici Court (Florence: Olschki,
2008), 142–43.
. Claudio Paolini, Itinerari nella casa fiorentina del rinascimento, ed. Elisabetta
Nardinocchi (Florence: Fondazione Herbert P. Horne, 1994), 29–31; Brenda Preyer,

Fig. 9. Plan of the primo piano of the Capponi-Barocchi

Palace in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries (reconstruction)
(Caterina D’Amelio). (The salotto in the inventory of 1600
was the “camera a mezzo l’andito della Signora,” and its
anticamera was the “anticamera della Signora.”)
Although Paolini proposed that Luigi Corsi

and his wife went from one room to the
other through the narrow space on the east
that held toilets, this seems unlikely in the
extreme, and as at Nori’s palace, and at the
Gondi and the Borgherini palaces, move-
ment could have been through the sala.
Alternatively, if perchance Horne was mis-
taken in dating to different points in the
eighteenth century, the doorways of which
he found traces in the dividing wall, one of
these may have been a refashioned original
doorway between the two rooms.
While of course in the later sixteenth
century the ducal palaces in Florence had
separate suites for the duke and duchess, the
situation for other houses is not clear due to
a lack of detailed research on the interiors
of these buildings. However, two invento-
ries known to me indicate that instances of separate suites for husband
and wife can be found. In 1568, the inventory of the assets of the rebel
Luigi di Messer Pandolfo Della Stufa lists items in the rooms of the
Della Stufa Palace that had belonged to his father: the sala, then the
camera of Luigi’s mother and a full set of attendant spaces (“camera di
Madonna Lena in su detta sala,”“anticamera di detta camera,”“scrittoi[o] del-
la anticamera,”“soffitta sopra la suddetta anticamera”). All this was matched
by the husband’s rooms (“camera sulla sala di Messer Pandolfo,” “[anti]
camera al lato a detta camera,” “soffitta sopra detta anticamera,” “terrazo di
Il palazzo Corsi-Horne: Dal Diario di Restauro di H.P. Horne (Rome: Istituto Poligrafico
e Zecca dello Stato, 1993).
. For Horne’s comments about these doorways, see Preyer, Palazzo Corsi-Horne,
124–25.

detta soffitta”). That Monna Lena’s camera communicated directly

with the sala is testified to by the listing of the last item in the latter
room,“Un crocifisso sopra l’uscio di camera di Madonna Lena.” The
second case involves the Capponi-Barocchi Palace, formerly known
as Palazzo Coverelli (Fig. 9). Here in 1600 the owner, recently de-
ceased, had lived in the camera principale, next to the sala, and in its
anticamera, while his wife had her own suite nearby, improvised in a
space that seems in the fifteenth century to have served as the salotto.
(The plan of this palace is strange due to the long narrow site and the
origins of the palace in the trecento, with a major remodeling in the
quattrocento.)
In most of our examples of possible rooms for the wife, a close rela-
tionship to three other rooms seems to have been important, though
in only a few buildings was the ideal achieved. A first priority, ap-
parently, was that the room be, like the camera principale, adjacent
to the sala. And most of the rooms also seem closer to the salotto
and the kitchen than was the man’s room. Finally, if possible, the
wife’s room communicated with that of the husband, just as Alberti
recommended.There are interesting implications for the possible ex-
istence of the wife’s room.While I do not know of changes in social
practices to which the change in planning can be attributed, the size
together with the location would seem in themselves to be making
a statement that the man and his wife had similar importance in
the home; indeed, most marriages were between people of families
of similar social status (though with all the variables of age, wealth,
political status and dowry). I hope that specialists in disciplines other
. Magistrato dei Pupilli del principato, 2709, cc. 35v–38. An abbreviated transcrip-
tion of the inventory has been published in Giuseppina Carla Romby, L’arte dell’abi-
tare nelle città toscane: Magnificenza, decoro, ornamento (secolo XVI) (Florence: Edifir, 2013),
57, 108–13. The house in question was not the trecento Della Stufa Palace, but its
extension towards via Ginori.
. These were very grand people; Pandolfo Della Stufa was close to Catherine de’
Medici, and during a diplomatic and political career of ups and downs, he served
frequently as an ambassador throughout Europe. See the entry by Vanna Arrighi in
Dizionario Biografico degli Italiani 37 (1989): www.treccani.it/enciclopedia/pandolfo-
della-stufa_(Dizionario biografico).
. See Brenda Preyer, Palazzo Capponi-Barocchi: From the Agli to the Barocchi through
Six Centuries (Florence: S.P.E.S. Studio Per Edizioni Scelte, 2014), 80–82.The inven-
tory calls the wife’s rooms “camera a mezzo l’andito della Signora” and “anticamera della
Signora.”

than mine will work with the new material that I have presented,
coordinating it with data permitting a rounding-out of the picture.
For instance, I would imagine that the new room would be the place
from which the woman would manage the household, though in-
formation is difficult to recover.
Even though I have no data on the actions that she performed in
that room, the wife’s room therefore can be thought in some respects
to symbolize the standing of the wife. As a coda to this article three
cases demonstrate the competence of women and the respect they
commanded and can suggest that a wife may well have had important
work to do and therefore that she needed appropriate quarters. Often
in his will a man named his wife, if she was no longer marriageable,
as a principal guardian of their young children, and he gave her his
camera with all its accoutrements.Thus after her husband’s death the
woman was much involved with handling the estate, sometimes for
decades. I find it suggestive that she was deputized to do this from
the same room in which her husband had been based, and like the
existence of the wife’s room this situation can be understood to say
something about the place of the wife in the family. Isabelle Chabot,
referring mainly to the period before 1450, sees the practice as geared
primarily towards retaining the wife’s dowry. But in 1488 Niccolò
di Giovanni Capponi’s legacy of the use of his camera and every-
thing in it to his wife of fifty years seems to me a loving gesture to-
wards a trusted partner; it was also a way of substituting himself with
a second authoritative figure in the family, operating from the same
space as had he, although their four sons were all married and living
in the palace, and in no need of a guardian. Capponi’s will contained
the standard stipulation that his wife not reclaim her dowry, but it
provided generously for her.
Even without a will that gives the camera principale to the wife,
there are cases in which it is clear that a widow was managing family
affairs while living in the camera principale. So with Lorenza Ginori
(b.1476), who had been married to Paolo di Pandofo di Giovanni
. For comments about this topic, see Marta Ajmar-Wollheim, “Housework,” in
At Home in Renaissance Italy, 153–63.
. Chabot, Dette, 274–82. I am grateful to Isabelle Chabot for discussing this subject
with me.
. Preyer, Palazzo Capponi-Barocchi, 102–9.

Rucellai, and who stayed after his death in 1509 in the Rucellai
Palace, with the care of numerous children. Pandolfo, the oldest, be-
came head of this branch of the family, and his mother remained
with him in the palace.When Pandolfo died in 1542, Lorenza again
took over, caring for his two children until her own death in 1548. In
that year the inventory of the palace shows that Lorenza was living
in the main camera, as evidenced by various items in the room that
can be identified with her (for example, a Madonna with the coats
of arms of the Rucellai and the Ginori, cassoni with same arms,
clothing). Lorenza probably also used a nearby room as a study, for
in it were some of her account books. This room at the corner of
the palace, where the space now is occupied by a much later staircase,
has always puzzled me, and now I wonder whether it was an early
example of a wife’s room, as it opened onto the sala.
While few data for the fifteenth and the early sixteenth centuries
have emerged about writing and accounting activities on the part of
women, an exception is the will of Lorenzo di Anfrione Lenzi, from
1509, which stipulates that his wife, a daughter of Tommaso Soderini,
should manage his affairs as she had done heretofore. The will con-
tinues with details about the reliability of her accounting procedures:
“And because said testator asserted and affirmed said Monna Maria
his wife to have administered and handled his many affairs and busi-
nesses, and to have taken in the harvests of the farms, and to have
done and managed much else for said testator, and always to have
given to him the full calculation and correct accounting, and to have
returned to him any remaining funds, in general said testator directs
Monna Maria also in the future to be obliged to administer his affairs
and businesses and manage them on her own. Especially because
he wants to leave the said Monna Maria protected and secure, by
virtue of the present legacy he exempts her from rendering ac-
counts of the aforesaid. Furthermore, he leaves to her judgment
everything that she will administrate in the future and that will
pass through her hands of the possessions of said testator, up to the
. Magistrato dei Pupilli del principato, 2649, fols. 403r–404r mod.
. “Uno libro di ricordi di monna Lorenza senza segnio, comincia l’anno 1514
et finisce l’anno 1529; uno quadernuccio di ricolta di monna Lorenza; uno libro
di monna Lorenza cominciato l’anno 1509 e finito 1528 di paghi et melioramenti”
(Ibid., fol. 398r mod.).

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“We must be near land,” said Mark. “Dust couldn’t come from
anywhere else. But I can’t see any land.” And he took another look
around—this time with difficulty, for the dust appeared to grow
thicker.
When the sun went down it was in a curious haze, which the
Norwegian sailor said was new to him. “Nefer see da sun lak dat,” he
said. “He look lak behine big smok.” And the boys agreed with him.
“It seems to me it is growing warmer,” came from Mark, as the
darkness settled around them. “I feel—what was that, a gun?”
A deep booming had reached their ears, coming from a great
distance. They listened and presently the sound was repeated,
rolling away like distant thunder.
“Is that a thunder storm?” questioned Frank of the sailor.
“I t’ink no sturm. I t’ink dat be da breakers. But no can see him.”
They looked around for the breakers, or for some sign of reefs, but
darkness was now settled upon every side. The booming continued
at long intervals, but they concluded that it must be miles away.
“I never heard of anything like it,” came from Mark. “First the dust
and now this noise. It’s certainly strange.”
“The raft is moving swifter, too,” returned Frank. “I’ve noticed it for
some time. There must be some sort of a current here.”
Their attention was now directed to this new discovery, and soon
they noticed that the raft was certainly moving in a direction south-
east by south, to use the nautical term. And it was going at the rate
of twenty or thirty miles an hour!
“The whole ocean looks different here,” said Mark, “What do you
make of it?” he asked of Sven Orlaff.
The Norwegian could not explain. He said the water had an
appearance which he had never seen. On the surface was a sort of
scum which, on being examined, proved to be, in part, of the dust
they had previously noticed.
“Put your hand into the water,” cried Frank. “It is surely warmer!”
They did so. Frank was right, the water was at least ten degrees
hotter than it had been. Not only this, it was growing hotter each
minute, until it got so they could scarcely put their hands into it.
“We are in for it now,” muttered Mark. “I don’t know what can be the
matter, but something is surely wrong.”
As if to add to the peril of the situation the raft now began to spin
around and sank several feet, as if about to go down. All clutched
each other, but soon the spinning ceased and the lumber moved
onward as before, sending the flying spray in all directions. They had
to cling fast with all their strength, for fear of being hurled off.
“If we were on a river I should say we were rushing for some
cataract,” said Mark. And then he added: “Don’t you remember,
Frank, how we went over that falls on the Orinoco?”
“I’ll never forget it,” answered Frank, with a shudder. “But, unless I
am mistaken, this is going to prove a ten times worse adventure.
That came to an end in short order—there is no telling where this will
wind up.”
Night had now settled down fully. There was no moon, and if the
stars were shining they were obscured by the strange dust, which
now came down as thickly as ever. They had to keep their eyes
closed for the greater part and breathed only with difficulty.
“If only we would strike land of some sort,” sighed Frank. “Even a
few rocks with trees would be better than this boundless deep.”
“I suppose the professor and Sam and Darry have given us up for
lost,” observed Mark.
“Perhaps the steamer went down, Mark. She must have been
rammed fearfully by that heavy lumber vessel. A single stick of
timber is a big battering-ram in itself.”
They questioned the Norwegian sailor, but he could not tell how
seriously the steamer had been injured. “Da water come ofer me,” he
said. “I mak big fight—no t’ink of da ships. I catch da lumber and hol’
fast. Den da ships go away and no can see dem t’rough da sturm.”
It was a night long to be remembered. The hours wore away slowly.
Each took a nap in turn, while the other two remained on guard.
Sound sleeping was out of the question, for there was no telling what
would happen next. If the truth be told, the anxiety of the two boys
was heartrending. They would have given all they possessed, or
ever hoped to possess, to have been upon terra firma once more.
But all times must have an end, and gradually a light in the East
proclaimed the coming of another day. The sky was still murky, but
not with the dust of the day before. Heavy clouds, not unlike thick
smoke, hung over the southern horizon, and these gradually
mounted higher and higher until the light of the rising sun was again
obscured. The raft was moving on still, but more slowly. The water
was just as hot as ever.
“Do you see anything?” questioned Frank, as Mark got up on the
highest point of the lumber to look around.
“I think I do,” was the slow answer. “Orlaff, look here.”
The Norwegian sailor readily complied, and Frank joined the pair.
“Dare is somet’ing,” said the sailor, slowly, pointing with his arm. “I
t’ink he is a boat—yes, t’ree, four boats. And back in da cloud is a
mountain.”
“It must be land!” cried Mark. “Oh, I hope it is!”
“But what is that big cloud?” questioned Frank.
“Some sort of fire, I guess,” returned Mark. “See! see! the boats are
coming this way! Oh, Frank! we are saved!”
“I see more boats, Mark! Five, six, eight, ten,—there must be at least
twenty of them. The natives must be going out to fish.”
Wild with delight at the approach of the boats, they yelled at the top
of their lungs and waved coats and the shirt frantically. Even Sven
Orlaff joined in the demonstration, yelling in a voice that sounded as
if it was coming through a megaphone.
“They see us!” cried Mark, after another painful pause. “See, they
are heading this way!”
“Look! look!” screamed Mark, pointing beyond the boats. “What a
fearfully black cloud! And it is rolling this way! And listen to the
thunder? Frank, that cloud is rolling from the mountain, and I think I
can see the flashes of lightning.”
It was all very strange to them, and they stared in open-mouthed
wonder at the phenomenon. What it could mean they could not
surmise. Then the raft began to whirl around and around, throwing
them down in a heap, while the air became so murky and full of gas
they could scarcely breathe. They clutched the lumber and the
chains and held fast, and for the time being the boats in the distance
were forgotten.
CHAPTER XXVIII
THE ERUPTION OF MONT PELEE
To those on board of the Vendee the hours dragged along dismally.

Neither Sam nor Darry knew what to do, and Professor Strong was
equally perplexed. The only person who was not deeply affected was
Hockley.
“It’s too bad,” he said to Sam. “But it couldn’t be helped, and we’ve
got to make the best of it.”
“You have never known what it is to have a real chum, Glummy,”
retorted Sam. “If you had one, and he was taken off as Frank and
Mark have been, you wouldn’t talk in this fashion. It’s dreadful to
think they have been drowned.”
“Well, crying about it won’t bring ’em back,” answered the tall youth,
unfeelingly.
“No, it won’t, but—but I can’t get over it yet—and perhaps I’ll never
get over it,” came from Sam, and then he turned away, unwilling to
continue the conversation with one so thoroughly unsympathetic.
Professor Strong walked the deck constantly. His mind was on the
missing boys and on their fathers, whom he expected to meet at St
Pierre. What should he tell those parents when they met? He could
well imagine their deep grief. And perhaps they would think it had
been his fault that they had been washed overboard.
“I should have compelled them to remain in the cabin,” he groaned to
himself. “Yes, that was my duty, in such a storm as that! I wish they
were back—I’d give all I possess to bring them back!” And he
continued his unsatisfactory walk back and forth, until even kind
hearted Captain Danvier grew tired of seeing the movements.
“You must calm yourself, my dear professor,” he said, in French. “It is
very sad, my heart goes out to you. I know what it is. And why not?
My own brother was washed from the deck in a storm and never
seen afterward. And I had to be captain just the same and bring my
vessel to the end of her trip. It was awful! Yes, I know how to feel for
you,” and he clapped a friendly hand on Professor Strong’s shoulder.
The air was murky and hot, so much so that even Sam and Darry
noticed it. They saw the cloud of smoke at a great distance, looking
at it through a marine glass the captain loaned them.
“The cloud is hanging over the northern end of the island of
Martinique,” said the professor. “There must be some sort of a forest
fire raging there.”
Soon somebody on deck reported that his eyes were filled with dust.
Half a dozen passengers and sailors were affected, and the dust
became so thick that it covered everything and made it look gray.
This was a most unusual occurrence and the professor was
appealed to for an explanation.
“This appears to be pumice,” he said, after an examination with a
microscope. “And if it is, it is most likely of volcanic origin. Pumice is
very light—so light that it will float on the water—which this is doing.
It is formed, so scientists say, by the gas coming out of lava while the
latter is in a melted state.”
“But where does it come from?” questioned Darry, who could not
help but be interested. “Is there any active volcano around here?”
“This pumice is so light that a fair wind will carry it for many miles,
Dartworth.”
“The wind is blowing up from the south-east,” put in Sam. “Do you
suppose it came from Martinique? That big black cloud looks
suspicious to me.”
“Perhaps Mont Pelee has become active again!” cried Darry. “It
certainly looks so.” And he pointed to the cloud, which looked
blacker than ever.
“That is not impossible,” said the professor. “You remember I told you
that that volcano had been active many times in the past. But I doubt
if the eruption will amount to anything. The volcano is considered to
be about burnt out.”
“Yes, it is no longer dangerous,” put in Captain Danvier, speaking in
French. “I myself was to the top with an excursion party but two
months ago. There was a beautiful lake there and no sign of fire. An
outbreak there would amount to but little.” And then he told how he
had often discussed the volcano with his friends at St. Pierre and
Fort de France and how all had agreed that the volcano’s activity
was of the past,—that is, so far as its capabilities for doing much
damage was concerned.
The dust proved so disagreeable that the professor and the boys
remained in the cabin the greater part of the time. It was now noticed
by the sailors that the sea was running in a strange manner and that
the flying spray was unusually warm. A bucket of water was hauled
up for examination and all were astonished to learn how hot it was.
“Perhaps there has been an under-water eruption,” said Professor
Strong. “But that would not account for this thick dust. It is a most
remarkable occurrence.” He was so interested that for the moment
his grief was forgotten.
They had been approaching the island from the north, and now they
turned due southward, to run down the coast to the harbor of St.
Pierre. Land was still but a speck in the distance when the darkness
of night closed in on the steamer.
“When shall we get to St. Pierre?” asked Sam.
“We be dare by daylight,” answered Captain Danvier. “Dat ees, if ze
dust don’t hold us back,” and he smiled, as if he was not very much
afraid.
Hardly had darkness settled down when the Vendee came to a
sudden stop and began to drift. Inquiries brought forth the
information that the engine had broken down, a portion of it having
been badly jarred when the steamer collided with the Dutch lumber
craft. There was no danger, and the chief engineer said he would be
able to repair the damage long before daybreak.
“This will make little difference to us,” said Professor Strong to the
boys. “We will get into St. Pierre harbor early in the morning and that
will do just as well as at night.” He spoke thus, little dreaming of how
much that delay meant to all on board.
When the sun arose the Vendee was still at rest on the bosom of the
sea. But repairs were going forward rapidly, and by half-past seven
the engine was once more in good running order and the steamer
resumed her course toward Martinique, which was now plainly
visible in the distance.
The volcanic dust had cleared away to a great degree and over
toward Mont Pelee, which arose majestically before them, only a
small black cloud hovered.
“There is the smoking mountain,” said the professor. “It doesn’t look
very alarming.”
The Vendee was not making over six knots an hour, the engineer
deeming it best not to strain the engine too greatly, so as they
passed along the coast they could see the shipping of the island and
the various industries. At one point they beheld a large smoking ruin
close to the water’s edge.
“That was a sugar factory—the Guerin,” said the captain, in French.
“It has been burnt down. And see, the houses around it have been
burnt down too.”
“The whole district is burnt down!” cried Professor Strong. “There
has been a serious calamity of some sort here. It looks to me as if
the volcano had become active. See the wreckage drifting along the
beach.”
“We shall soon know,” answered the commander of the steamer.
He turned to give some orders to his mate, leaving the boys and the
professor standing at the rail. Scarcely had he disappeared when a
fearful explosion in the distance burst upon the ears of all on board.
The noise was so great that it almost stunned them.
“Oh, what’s that?” cried Sam.
“Look! look!” yelled Darry. “The volcano!”
“The volcano! The volcano!” came the cry from all over the steamer.
No one could say more than that, for there was not time, nor was
there need. One look in the direction of Mont Pelee was enough to
stagger the stoutest heart.
The whole top of the mountain seemed to have gone up like a
discharge from a gigantic cannon. There was a vast cloud of
blackness sweeping and rolling in every direction, a blackness lit up
by patches of fire of various colors. The cloud came on and on,
growing larger and larger, until it hid the sun and made all as dark as
night. The fire was everywhere, filling the air like rain.
The captain of the Vendee was calling to the wheelman to turn the
steamer about when a mighty wave struck the craft, sending her
staggering to starboard. The boys held on like grim death, Hockley
shrieking in his terror. Then the vessel righted herself, only to be
heeled over again, worse than before.
And now that cloud, or the extreme edge of it, reached them and a
noxious gas made them gasp for breath. There was dust, mud and
red-hot stones in that cloud, and they fell everywhere on the deck of
the steamer as she turned to escape what looked like certain
destruction. Some of the fire landed on the boys and the professor,
and in a twinkling their clothes were aflame.
“Help! help!” roared Hockley. “I am burning up!” And then he made a
dash for the cabin, slapping out the fire as he ran. The others came
after him, putting out the flames as best they could.
All was confusion on board, the passengers running hither and
thither, not knowing what to do. “The volcano is bursting!” was the
cry. “We are doomed! The sea will open and swallow us!” Some fell
upon their knees praying, others ran to the captain imploring him to
run away from the land, while one nervous and highly excited old
man leaped into the sea, to be seen no more.
The sea was now foaming and boiling on all sides of the ship. The
hot stones as they fell sent up a loud hissing and some of them
cracked open with pistol-like reports. The superheated mud was of a
sticky nature and where it fell it dried fast like so much plaster.
In a few minutes the black cloud lifted somewhat, but the patches of
fire came down as thickly as ever. The Vendee was set on fire in a
score of places, the masts and tarry ropes flaming up like so many
torches. She had now been turned about and was running for the
open sea at the top speed of her engine.
“The ship is on fire! The ship is on fire!” Such was the cry taken up a
minute later, when it was seen that the craft had righted and was
running steadily on her new course. “We must put out the flames!
Form a bucket brigade!” And this was done, while the captain
ordered the hose brought into use.
His first surprise over, Professor Strong grew calm, and at once set
to work to do all in his power to assist in saving the Vendee. He
found a bucket, filled it with water and started to put out the fire that
had taken hold of a corner of the rear deck house. Without delay
Sam and Darry joined him. Hockley remained in the cabin, wringing
his hands in despair, afraid to remain alone and equally afraid to go
outside, where the patches of fire still filled the air.
“Boys, you had better keep under shelter,” panted Professor Strong,
as he worked away vigorously, not only with the water bucket but
also with a wet swab he had discovered. “This is highly dangerous,
and——”
“No more so for us than for you,” interrupted Sam. “It’s our duty to do
all we can.”
“Creation! but this is awful!” panted Darry, as he too began to fight
the flames with another bucket.
“Wet your jackets—I have wet my coat,” said the professor. “And be
careful of your eyes. I think we are getting out of the zone of fire,” he
added, as he cast an anxious eye shoreward, where Mont Pelee was
still belching forth death and destruction.
The two boys did as advised, and soon the three were working like
Trojans, along with some other passengers and a number of the
steamer’s crew. The Vendee was now quivering from stem to stern
under her full head of steam, for the engineer had been told of what
had occurred and given to understand that they must either get away
or go down in that awful holocaust behind them.
Darry and Sam had just procured fresh buckets of water and were
doing their best to put out a patch of fire in a coil of ropes when they
heard a groan from Professor Strong, who, bucket in hand, was
staggering around clutching the air. Some hot volcanic dust had
taken the professor full in the face, cutting off his breath.
“The professor is overcome!” cried Darry and threw down his bucket
on the instant. Sam did the same, and both leaped forward just in
time to save the man from falling. The next moment Professor
Strong hung limply in their arms, his eyes closed. Not a sound came
from him, nor did he appear to be breathing.
“He’s dead!” muttered Sam, hoarsely. “Oh, Darry, this is the worst
yet!”
CHAPTER XXIX
THE DESTRUCTION OF ST. PIERRE
And now, while Mont Pelee is in full eruption, let us go ashore and
learn what was happening in the city of St. Pierre, with its twenty-five
thousand inhabitants and its five thousand refugees.
There had been more than one warning that this terrible catastrophe
was at hand. For a number of days outbreaks of more or less
importance had occurred, which had occasioned the lava dust and
the strange condition of the water encountered so far out at sea.
The first intimation that the inhabitants of northern Martinique had
that something was wrong was on Friday, April 25, 1902. On that day
curious vapors were seen to be rising above Morne Lacroix, the
highest summit of Pelee. A number of inhabitants went to investigate
and found the water in the lake on the mountain top boiling and
throwing off gases.
“We are going to have an eruption,” said some, but the majority
laughed and said it would amount to little or nothing.
The water in the lake continued to boil for several days, and then the
volcano began to throw up mud and cinders, which fell on all sides of
the crater. Still there was but little alarm, until on May 2d, when there
came a shower of cinders which completely covered some of the
villages near the mountain and even extended to certain portions of
St. Pierre.
The alarm was now greater, but still it was argued that St. Pierre was
safe. The leading newspaper of St. Pierre, Les Colonies, gave some
interesting information about the outbreaks, and spoke about the fine
dust which had entered every house and every store. This dust was
so obnoxious that some of the places of business had felt compelled
to close their doors. The inhabitants of the villages near to the angry
mountain were now coming into St. Pierre for protection, and
churches and many public buildings had to be opened for their
benefit. It was reported that all vegetation around the mountain itself
had disappeared and that even the roads and trails could no longer
be found, owing to the cinders and mud.
For two days cinders and mud continued to come from the mountain
and frequent explosions were heard accompanied by slight
earthquakes. The streets of St. Pierre and other towns close to the
mountain were covered with several inches of volcanic dust, and
business came to a standstill. Many began to leave the northern end
of the island, taking passage for Fort de France and other places
further southward. But still the majority of the citizens of St. Pierre
believed that the eruption would soon cease, and even the governor
of the island advised them to remain by their property until the
excitement was over.
The River Blanche flows down from Mont Pelee to the sea, midway
between St. Pierre and the village of Precheur on the north. Near
this stream stood the great Guerin sugar factory, with many valuable
plantations around it. On May 5th it was noticed that the river was
swelling and that its waters were of a black and gray color. Then the
river rose with remarkable rapidity and began to boil, and the terror-
stricken people near at hand saw that it was nothing more than a
torrent of lava and mud from the mountain sweeping down to engulf
them. On and on it came, leaping bridges and low-lying fields, and in
a few minutes not only the buildings of the factory, but also the
beautiful villas of the owners, the houses of the workmen, and trees
and all living things were swallowed up. The ocean went down a
distance of thirty or forty feet, leaving parts of the harbor bottom dry
at Precheur and at St. Pierre, and then arose with tremendous force,
sweeping the shipping about, smashing small craft of all kinds, and
causing a rush of people to the hills.
The alarm was now universal, and several meetings were held at St.
Pierre and other places, to decide what was best to be done. The
French war cruiser Suchet was called into service, to make an
examination and give all the relief possible. To add to the horror St.
Pierre was plunged into darkness that night, the electric light plant
failing to work.
For two days the terror of the people continued, and now they were
leaving, or trying to leave, as fast as they could make the necessary
arrangements. Those who owned valuable property hated, of course,
to give it up, and some said they would remain to the end, no matter
what occurred. There were constant showers of dust, and muddy
rains, and frequent rumblings as of thunder. Some parties that went
out to explore in the vicinity of the mountain reported that all was
chaos within three miles of Pelee, and that at some points the lava
and mud lay to a depth of ten feet.
The next day was Thursday, May 8th. It was Ascension Day, and
early in the morning the cathedral in St. Pierre and the churches
were open for divine service. A heavy cloud hung over Mont Pelee,
that same cloud which those on board of the Vendee saw and which
caused poor Frank and Mark on their raft so much uneasiness.
And then the great eruption.
What the people of St. Pierre thought of that fearful outburst no one
can tell, for out of that vast number, estimated at between twenty-five
thousand to thirty-one thousand people, not a single person
remained alive to tell the tale! Surely such an awful record is enough
to sadden the hardest heart.
Having already viewed this scene from the deck of the Vendee we
know that there was scant warning of this mighty outburst. From out
of the depths of Pelee issued mud, lava, stones, and a gigantic
volume of gas that rolled and fell directly down upon the doomed
city, cutting off every particle of life-giving air and suffocating and
burning wherever it landed. Men, women, and children were struck
down where they stood, without being able to do anything to save
themselves. The explosions of the gases, and the shock of an
earthquake, made hundreds of buildings totter and fall, and the rain
of fire, a thousand times thicker here than out on the ocean, soon
completed the work of annihilation. St. Pierre, but a short time before
so prosperous and so happy, was no longer a city of the living but
had become a cemetery of the dead.
It was something of this last outburst that reached Mark and Frank
and the Norwegian sailor, as they clung fast to the lumber raft as it
whirled and rocked in the boiling sea that raged on all sides of them.
Then a cloud as black as night swept over them, so that they could
scarcely see each other.
“What can it be?” murmured Mark. “Is it the end of the world?”
“The world is on fire!” shrieked Sven Orlaff, in his native tongue. “The
Lord God have mercy on us!” And he began to pray earnestly. The
boys did not understand him, but in the mind of each was likewise a
prayer, that God would bring them through that terrible experience in
safety.
At last the cloud lifted a bit and the sea became somewhat calmer.
Part of the lumber had become loosened and drifted off, so that the
raft was scarcely half as big as before. In the excitement Mark had
had his leg severely bruised and Frank’s left hand was much
scratched and was bleeding, but neither paid attention to the hurts.
“The boats—where are they?” questioned Mark, trying to clear his
eyes that he might see. All had drifted out of sight but one, a craft
with a single sail, which the strange current had sent close beside
them. This boat was filled to overflowing with people, Frenchmen
and negroes, all as terror-stricken as themselves.
“Help! Help us!” called the boys, and Sven Orlaff added a similar
appeal. But no help could be given—the boat was already
overloaded—and soon wind and current carried her out of sight
through the smoke and dust and the rolling sea.
Slowly the hours passed and gradually the sky cleared, although
over Mont Pelee still hung that threatening cloud of death. The sea
remained hot, and as the lumber raft drifted southward it
encountered numerous heaps of wreckage. Far off could be seen
the ruins of buildings which still smoked and occasionally blazed up.
“It’s a tremendous volcanic explosion,” said Mark, at last. “I believe
Mont Pelee has blown its head off.”
“Look! Look!” cried Sven Orlaff. “Da boat! We git da boat!”
He pointed but a short distance away. A boat was drifting toward
them, a craft probably twenty-five feet in length and correspondingly
broad of beam. The boat had had a mast but this was broken off
short and hung, with the sail, over the side.
Soon the boat bumped up against the lumber raft and they caught
hold of the wreckage and held fast. The body of the craft was in
good condition and they immediately leaped into the boat and began
to clear away the fallen mast and the sail with its ropes. There were
some signs of fire both at the bow and the stern but this had done
little but char the seats and gunwale. In the bottom of the boat rested
a keg and several boxes.
“This is much better than the lumber,” observed Frank, when they
were safely on board and had saved part of the mast and the sail. “I
suppose this boat either went adrift or the persons in her were
drowned. What do you suppose is in the keg and in the boxes?”
“Water in da keg,” announced the sailor, after an examination. He
took a long drink and the boys did the same. The water was very
warm but to their parched throats it was like nectar.
On breaking open the boxes they were found to contain eatables of
various kinds, evidently packed for a trip of several days. At once all
fell to, eating the first “square” meal they had had since drifting
around.
“There, that puts new life into a fellow,” exclaimed Mark, when he
had finished. “Now let us hoist that mast and sail and steer for St.
Pierre.”
“Do you believe this eruption reached that city?” questioned Frank,
with a look of new alarm suddenly showing itself on his worn face.
Mark gazed back blankly for an instant. “Great Cæsar, Frank! If it
did, and your father and mine were there——” Mark could not finish.
With sober faces the two boys assisted Sven Orlaff to hoist the
broken mast and fix it in place with ropes, of which, fortunately there
were plenty, they having been dragging in the water, thus escaping
the fire. Then the sail was hoisted, and they began a slow journey
southward, in the direction of St. Pierre harbor.
As the boat advanced more wreckage was encountered, and once
they passed a small raft filled with household goods. On top of the
goods lay the half burnt bodies of several people. Then they passed
the bodies of several cows and of a horse, and the wreckage
became thicker and thicker. The sights made them shudder and
grow sick at heart.
Night found them still on the sea, some distance west of St. Pierre,
for they had missed their reckoning by over a mile, Sven Orlaff being
but a common sailor and understanding little more of steering than
themselves. A horrible smell reached them, coming from the distant
shore.
When day dawned, it found them somewhat rested and eager to get
closer to land, although they determined not to go ashore until they
felt it would be safe to do so. Each of the boys was thinking of his
father. Was it possible that St. Pierre had been overcome and were
their parents dead?
As last they made out the distant city, and the harbor dotted here
and there with the burnt shipping. Directly in the roadstead rested
the wrecked and burnt hulk of a big steamship, the Roraima, of the
Quebec line. The Roraima had been caught with twenty-one
passengers and a crew of forty-seven on board, and of that number
less than a third were saved and many of these were horribly
crippled for life.
“Another ship! A man-of-war!” cried Frank, and he was right. Close at
hand was the big warship, the Suchet, sent north once more from
Fort de France to investigate the happenings of St. Pierre. The
captain of the warship had just taken on board the survivors from the
Roraima, and now a hail was sent to our friends and they too were
assisted to the deck.
CHAPTER XXX
LOOKING FOR THE MISSING ONES
“Oh, Mark, the city is laid in ashes! Nobody escaped!”

It was Frank who uttered the words, after a French naval officer, who
could speak English, had explained the situation.
“But some people must have gotten away,” insisted Mark, unwilling
to believe the awful facts. “Remember how we found our boat, and
how we saw those other boats further up the coast. They must have
had warning enough.”
“But the fiery blast came so quickly,” went on the younger youth.
“Those from the Roraima say it came in one gigantic swoop that
swept everything before it. If that is so, and our fathers were in the
city——”
“We must go ashore and make a search, Frank—that is, as soon as
it is safe to do so. I wonder where the Vendee is?”
“There is no telling. If she was in the harbor perhaps she was burnt
up like the Roraima and those other craft lying about,” answered
Frank, dismally.
It was truly a trying time on board of the warship, where the cries of
those suffering from burns could be plainly heard. The boys wanted
to help, but were told there were plenty of doctors for that purpose.
In the meantime Sven Orlaff had made himself at home among the
sailors.
Two hours later found the lads on shore, in company with a
searching party sent to bring in any persons who might be found
alive. The landing was made in a small boat some distance south of
the fallen city. There were two priests and several naval officers, and
also half a dozen Frenchmen, and two Americans who had business
interests in that locality.
It was with extreme difficulty that the boys picked their way along,
over the trunks of fallen trees and over rocks which were still hot to
the touch. Everything was blasted as if by a lightning stroke and
covered with mud, lava and ashes. Nothing could be seen of the
roadway, which was buried beneath stones, brick and other debris.
The boys had been told in their letters that their parents would stop
at the Hotel Rosa, on the Rue de Victor Hugo, one of the principal
streets of St. Pierre. One of the Americans in the party, John
Waterbury by name, was bound for this street, and the boys plodded
along beside him.
It took them two hours to gain the neighborhood, so great were the
ruins on all sides. Dead bodies were everywhere in evidence, some
buried under tons and tons of fallen stones and bricks. Even the
great cathedral and the massive bank buildings had not escaped. At
last John Waterbury came to a halt and heaved a deep sigh.
“As I thought,” he said. “Do you see yonder pile of smoking ruins?
That was where our three-storied business building stood, with a
stock of goods worth thirty thousand dollars. It is gone—every dollar
of it—and my two partners and our four clerks have probably lost
their lives also.”
“It is awful!” murmured Mark. He could scarcely speak. “Simply
awful! And where was the—the Hotel Rosa?” he faltered.
“That building over yonder. I can tell it only by that twisted iron railing
of the balcony. I have sat on that balcony many a time with my feet
on the railing. It doesn’t seem to be destroyed as utterly as our
building, but it is pretty well riddled.”
And riddled it was, from top to bottom, with the back and one side
wall completely demolished. In the street the wreckage lay five or six
feet deep, and over all was the mud and lava dust, still hot. The
boys’ feet were uncomfortably warm and looking at their shoes they
found that the soles were seared as by a hot iron.
There was no sign of life about the hotel. In one of the windows hung
the half doubled up body of a man, burnt beyond all possible
recognition. As the lads gazed at it a shiver passed over them
impossible to suppress. Could that be—but no, it was too horrible—
they would not believe it.
“Let us go!” whispered Frank, hoarsely. “I—I can’t stand it!” And he
swayed as if about to faint.
Mark caught his chum by the arm, and both picked their way to
where they had left John Waterbury. Nothing could be accomplished
while the ruins were so hot, and the American business men
accompanied them back to the shore below St. Pierre. Here they
learned that the warship had sailed to another quarter of the island,
but a relief boat named the Ridalla was at hand, and they were taken
on board this craft and made to feel at home.
From those on board of the Ridalla, Mark and Frank learned that the
Vendee had been spoken several hours before, and that the steamer
was now heading back to Martinique. She had suffered, as we
already know, but nothing had been lost but a number of ropes and a
corner of the cabin, which were burnt away.
“I’m glad they are safe,” said Mark. “The Vendee might have suffered
like the Roraima and those other ships.”
An hour later a lookout announced the appearance of the Vendee,
and not long after this the steamer came into the harbor and dropped
anchor. At once Mark and Frank begged to be taken on board and
their wish was speedily granted.
“Mark! Frank!” The cry came from Darry, who chanced to be on
deck, and the next moment the lad was fairly hugging the pair. “Well
of all that is wonderful! We had given you both up as lost!”
“We’ve had a hard time of it,” answered Mark. “How did you make
out?”
“Oh, we caught our share too, I can tell you that. The fire rained all
over the ship and we had to fight it like mad for over an hour. The
professor was overcome and Sam and I were afraid he was dead.
But he got over it after a while, and now he is as well as ever. I
suppose St. Pierre is a sight. But tell me how you escaped being
drowned. But no, come into the cabin first and see the others.”
Darry led the way, and soon they ran into all the others of the party.
There was another joyous greeting, in which even Hockley had the
good sense to join. Then each party had to tell its story, to which the
other listened with breathless attention.
“You were more than fortunate,” said Professor Strong, after Mark
and Frank had finished. “Getting aboard that lumber raft, and later on
the small boat, was certainly providential. And we were equally
fortunate in being delayed by the breaking down of the engine. Had it
not been for that the Vendee would surely be lying a wreck in St.
Pierre harbor.”
Captain Danvier was glad to see the boys, and from them learned
the particulars concerning the lumber vessel that had been struck.
“They will not prosecute me at law,” he said to Professor Strong, in
French. “They knew the collision was as much their fault as mine.”
And so it proved. Later on the Dutch owners of the lumber boat sent
several threatening communications, and Captain Danvier answered
in an equally threatening manner; and there the matter rested. It may
be as well to add that Sven Orlaff never went back to the lumber
boat, but enlisted instead in the service of a packet line running from
the West Indies to Brazil.
Word soon came for Captain Danvier to take his vessel to Fort de
France, and he sailed to that port with our friends on board. Sam and
Darry had wanted to go ashore to inspect the ruins but Hockley had
objected strongly.
“I don’t want to run any more risks,” said the tall youth. “I want to get
just as far away from that volcano as possible.”
They found Fort de France a busy place. It was fast filling up with
refugees from all parts of Martinique, and many public buildings had
been thrown open for the accommodation of the newcomers. More
than this, relief was already pouring in from many places, including
the United States, where the news of the terrible catastrophe had
shocked the whole nation.
Professor Strong would have been willing to leave the West Indies
without delay, but Frank and Mark stoutly objected to going before
they had learned something concerning their fathers, and he did not
care to sail without them.
“I’m going to make a systematic search,” said Mark to Frank, after
several days had been spent in Fort de France. “It is possible that
your father and mine came down here from St. Pierre.” And he and
Frank did make a search which lasted forty-eight hours.
It was then that they ran across a Frenchman who was in the
business of exporting dyewoods. The Frenchman had met Mr.
Robertson and Mr. Newton twice, and transacted some business
with both.
“They were up at St. Pierre three days before the great eruption,”
said the dyewoods exporter, who could speak good English. “They
told me that they were going to make a journey overland to Basse
Pointe, on the north coast. Whether they started before St. Pierre
fell, or whether they were caught on the way, I cannot tell.”
This conversation filled Mark and Frank with renewed hope that their
parents might have escaped, and they talked the matter over with
Professor Strong and Sam and Darry.
“Basse Pointe is a small town lying almost directly north of Mont
Pelee,” said the professor. “It is just as close to the volcano as St.
Pierre and has suffered a good deal, so they say, although not as
much as the city.”
“But couldn’t we go up there in some kind of a boat, or overland?”
questioned Mark, eagerly. “Perhaps my father and Frank’s are up
there?”
The professor said he would make inquiries, and set about doing so
without delay. He could find no boat running to Basse Pointe, but
there was a native craft about to sail for St. Marie, a village about ten
miles below the point they wished to gain.
“Then I’m going to St. Marie and travel overland to Basse Pointe,”
said Mark, and Frank said the same.
“And I’ll go with you,” put in Sam.
“Ditto myself,” chimed in Darry. “I want to see something of this
volcanic eruption before I leave Martinique.”
“Well, you fellows can go,” came from Hockley. “But you won’t budge
me. If there comes another downpour of lava, rocks and mud you’ll
all be killed.”
Darry was about to say something about a coward, when Mark
stopped him. “We don’t want Hockley anyway,” he whispered. “And it
is just as dangerous as he says.”
Another talk followed, and it was hard work for the boys to get
Professor Strong to consent to the plan. But the professor was
secretly as eager as any of them, for he knew that the scientific
magazines would welcome an article from his pen describing the
condition of this territory immediately after the great eruption.
“I cannot blame Mark and Frank for wanting to go,” he said. “But as
to you, Samuel, and Dartworth——”
“Oh, you must consent!” interrupted Darry. “What are we journeying
around for if not to see the sights? And this is such a sight as comes
only once in a lifetime.” So it was settled; and that evening found the
five on the ship bound for St. Marie. Hockley was left at a hotel in
Fort de France to await their return.
CHAPTER XXXI
DANGEROUS VOLCANO EXPLORING
The journey to St. Marie was made without special incident, and
thirty-six hours later the party landed in the little village, to find it all
but deserted. Many of the inhabitants had fled in boats and others
had journeyed overland to Fort de France.
On landing, the boys and the professor lost no time in making
inquiries concerning the road to Basse Pointe. They were told that it
ran along the shore, past Grand Anse, another village, also
deserted. There were a number of bridges to cross, and whether
these were in good condition nobody could tell.
“This is getting more risky,” observed the professor, but at that
moment a black man came up who could speak English, and he
offered to guide them to any point they wished to go providing they
would pay him a sum equal to five dollars per day,—this amount
being a small fortune to the fellow.
“We’ll take you up, Gambo,” said the professor. “Let us start at
once.” And they set off, each carrying some food with him, for there
was no telling what desolation lay in store for them.
Gambo was a bright, intelligent fellow, and under his guidance they
made rapid progress. By nightfall they reached Grand Anse, to find it
covered with volcanic dust and stones. Only four natives had
remained there, and they said they were going to depart as soon as
a certain boat came back for them. They asked Gambo about the
Americans, and then said they had seen some other Americans up
in the mountains, the day before the awful eruption.
“They must have been Mark’s father and mine!” cried Frank,
excitedly. “Ask them where they went to?”
Gambo did so. The reply was uncertain. The Americans had been at
a small settlement called Frodamalos but where they had gone after
that was not known.
“Where is Frodamalos?” questioned Professor Strong.
“Up the mountainside,” answered Gambo. “It is close to Pelee.”
“I don’t care—I’m going anyway,” said Frank. “I don’t believe we are
going to have any more eruptions—at least, not right away.”
Again there was a conference, but in the end the professor yielded,
and they went forward towards the interior of Martinique. The lofty
height of Mont Pelee was before them, still crowned with black
smoke and many-colored vapor. The mighty giant was resting,
preparatory to a greater exhibition of strength.
The evidences of the fearful eruption were more and more
pronounced as they advanced. Down near the shore the vegetation
had been only dust covered, here it was literally burnt up. The trees
were stripped bare, leaving only the black trunks standing. The
ground was cracked in a thousand places, while here and there were
large deposits of mud and lava, twisted and turned into all sorts of
curious shapes. Occasionally they passed the bones of some
animal, and in one spot they came upon the partly consumed bodies
of two natives who had died locked in each other’s arms. At the sight
of the dead natives Gambo fell upon his knees in horror. Then of a
sudden he leaped up, turned, and fled in the direction from whence
he had come, running as if a legion of demons were at his heels.
“He has deserted us,” said the professor, after calling for the negro to
come back. “Even the offer of five dollars per day in gold couldn’t
hold him after such a sight.”
“But I am not going to turn back,” said Mark, with set teeth, and he
strode on, with Frank beside him; and the others followed.
It was hard walking and climbing, and frequently they had to pause
to get their breath. The air seemed to grow more suffocating as they
drew nearer to the volcano.
“It is the gas,” said Professor Strong. “I think we had better go back.”
And he shook his head doubtfully.
“There are the ruins of a village!” exclaimed Sam, pointing to a hill on
their left. “That must be Frodamalos.”
Without replying Mark led the way toward the spot pointed out. They
had to cross a bed of lava and mud that was still warm, and then
leap a wide ravine before they could get close to the wreckage of
huts and houses.
“Not a person in sight, nor a dead body,” remarked Frank, as they
gazed about them. “That looks encouraging. Everybody here
evidently got out before the big explosion.”
“Let us go a little closer to the volcano, now we are here,” suggested
Sam. “I don’t believe there is any immediate danger of another
outburst.”
The sight of the lofty mountain, with its smoke and vapor, was a
fascinating one, and cautiously they moved forward once more until
they could see the openings and the streams of lava quite plainly.
The top of the mountain appeared to be split into several sections,
and at one point they could see a ruddy glow that betokened a vast
fire beneath.
“Come, let us go back,” said Professor Strong, decidedly. “This is far
too dangerous. We have seen enough.” And he caught Mark and
Frank by the arm.
“Look! look!” cried Darry, pointing with his hand. “The fire is growing
brighter!”
“And the lava is beginning to flow again!” ejaculated Sam. “You are
right, professor, we had best get away from here!”
All looked back and saw that Sam was right. The lava was beginning
to flow from two of the vents in the mountain top. It was a steaming,
hissing and dangerous looking mass, and began to move down on
both sides of them.
“We must run for it!” exclaimed Professor Strong. “If we do not that
lava may cut off our retreat. Come!” And he set off, with all of the
boys around him.
It was no easier to descend the mountainside than it had been to
come up. Rocks and loose stones were numerous, and it appeared
to them that some of the cracks in the surface were wider than
before. Once Darry stumbled and fell, and the wind was knocked out
of him so completely that the others had to help him up and hold him
for a moment. Then they turned in the wrong direction and
encountered a bed of half-dried mud into which they sunk up to their
shoe tops.
“Hi! this won’t do!” called out Sam, who was in the lead. “We’ll all be
stuck like flies on flypaper. We’ll have to go to the right.” And this
they did.
Looking back they saw that the lava was now flowing at a greater
rate than ever. It hissed and steamed viciously, as if anxious to
overtake them. The main flow on their right had divided into two
streams and one of these was coming straight for them!
“We must get to the other side of yonder split in the rocks!” cried
Professor Strong. “It’s our only hope. Come, boys!” And he urged
them before him.
The crevasse he mentioned was a good fifty yards away, and now
the lava was approaching with incredible swiftness, like some fiery
serpent bent upon their destruction. On and on they sped, until their
breath came thick and fast and poor Frank felt on the point of fainting
away. The professor caught him by the shoulder and almost dragged
him to the edge of the opening.
With the lava at their very heels the boys and Professor Strong made
the leap over the wide crevasse. The professor had Frank by the
hand and went over in safety with his charge, and the leaps of Mark
and Darry were equally successful. But poor Sam, as he started to
jump, slipped and fell.
“Help!” cried Sam, and then half fell across the opening, to clutch at
the edge of the crevasse with his hands. There was next to nothing
to hold to, and he was on the point of dropping out of sight when
Mark made a dive for him, followed by Darry. Each caught a wrist in
his grasp and pulled with all of his strength, and in a moment more
Sam was safe. But the escape had been a narrow one, and the
youth was as pale as a sheet.
As the whole party collected on the opposite side of the opening the
lava poured into it with an increased hissing and a rapid rising of
steam. Then, as the lava struck some water far below, there was a
loud report, followed by others.
“Come, we have no time to waste!” went on the professor. “That
opening will soon fill up and then the lava will be after us again. We
must get down to the ocean without delay.”
Again they went on, this time in an irregular line, each holding on to
the others. Frank had a stitch in the side, and so had Darry, but
neither dared to complain. They knew it was a run for life.
At last they came in sight of the sea, far below them, for they had
come out on something of a cliff. There was a rough path leading
downward, and over this they stumbled, they could scarcely tell how,
afterward. Then they ran out along a broad beach. They saw a boat
not far away and called loudly to those on board.
At first the craft refused to come in for them. It was a small affair,
manned by two Frenchmen. But Professor Strong promised the
sailors a big reward for their assistance, and presently our friends
were taken aboard.
“That ends volcano exploring for me,” gasped Sam, when they were
safe on board. “That was a close shave.”
“It certainly was,” came from Darry. “It was only that split in the earth
that saved us from that stream of lava.”
Neither Mark nor Frank said anything. The exploration, so far as
finding out anything about their parents was concerned, had been a
failure.
The French sailors were bound for St. Pierre by way of the north
passage around the island, and there was nothing to do but to
remain on board until the capital city was reached. It was now seen
that Mont Pelee was getting ready for another eruption.
This outburst, four-fold greater than those already described,
occurred the next day, while the small craft was well away from the
shore. The thunder and lightning from the volcano were something
stupefying, and tremendous masses of rocks and lava were hurled
forth, to lay the whole northern end of Martinique in complete
desolation. The ruins of St. Pierre were all but buried from sight, and
the force of the eruption was felt even as far south as Fort de
France, where much dust and not a few stones fell, to add to the
terror of a population already on the verge of despair.
It may be as well to add here that Martinique was at these trying
times not the only island in that vicinity to suffer from volcanic action.
On St. Vincent, a British possession one hundred miles further
south, the volcano called La Soufriere went into equal activity, and
an eruption at Mont Pelee was usually attended by a similar
happening at the other volcano, showing that the two were most
likely in some way connected. The activity of La Soufriere threw the
natives of St. Vincent into a panic, and although but few people,
comparatively, were killed, yet they flocked to Kingstown, the capital,
and many begged the government to aid them in getting away. It was
a time of great anxiety in all the Lesser Antilles and many predicted
that all these islands, which as already mentioned, are in reality
nothing but the tops of a long range of mountains, would either blow
up or sink into the sea.
CHAPTER XXXII
THE FATE OF CAPTAIN SUDLIP
By the time the small native craft reached the vicinity of St. Pierre
the great eruption was at an end, and Pelee had once more resumed
its normal condition, saving for the cloud of black smoke and the
strange vapor still clinging to its lofty top. Even from a great distance,
however, it could be noticed that the top of the grand old mountain
was split into several parts.
In the harbor of St. Pierre were collected a dozen or more steamers
sent from various ports to give aid to the sufferers who were flocking
in from many of the outlying districts. Provisions were to be had in
plenty, and also clothing, while a score or more of surgeons and
physicians stood ready to care for the sick, the wounded and the
dying.
“What an awful scene of desolation!” remarked Sam, as they gazed
at the distant ruin of the once prosperous city. “Everything seems to
be buried under the fall of lava and mud.”
“Yes, and the lava has turned to stone,” added Mark. “I don’t believe
they will ever rebuild this place.”
“It is not likely,” said Professor Strong. “Or, if they do, it will not be for
many years. In my opinion the whole north end of Martinique will be
abandoned, for there is no telling how soon Mont Pelee will belch
forth again.”
It was not long after this that they passed the wreckage of a French
sailing vessel which had been burnt near to the north shore of St.
Pierre. Another boat was at hand, transferring such of the cargo as
remained undamaged.
“I wonder what craft that is?” said Frank. “It looks something like a
boat we saw in the harbor of Havana.”

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ITALICA PRESS, INC.

Italica Press Studies in Art & History

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced,

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Cover image:The Tomb of Mausoleus, Halicarnassus. Engraving by Philips Galle after

For a Complete List of Italica Press Titles

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Gretchen E. Meyers. Suis manibus fecerat: Queen Dido as a

Elissa Weaver.What to Wear in the Decameron and Why It

Fig. 3. Giovanni Boccaccio, catchword portrait, in ink and watercolor, of Gianni

In memory of Olan Rand and Barbara Sparti

Valone continues to be recognized for her expert scholarship on

Within a ten-year period, Valone wrote and published articles that

Renaissance women, like women such as Dido of ancient Carthage

. Stephen Greenblatt, Renaissance Self-Fashioning: From More to Shakespeare

companion of Pope Innocent X (1574–1655, pope 1644–55) and

perspectives: patron, subject and performer. Anne Jacobson Schutte’s

enter into its ranks.” This, Goldthwaite deemed, is social emulation.

Chapter 11, Cynthia Stollhans examines the last will of Fiammetta

the understanding of Virgil’s literary depictions of Dido as a weaver

furniture. Finally, sometimes there

in the latter’s camera. Frequently notaries came to these rooms

. Preyer,“Gianfigliazzi Palace,” 63–66.

Fig. 9. Plan of the primo piano of the Capponi-Barocchi

Although Paolini proposed that Luigi Corsi

detta soffitta”). That Monna Lena’s camera communicated directly

To those on board of the Vendee the hours dragged along dismally.

“Oh, Mark, the city is laid in ashes! Nobody escaped!”

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