The manifesto - one of the tools of cultural and political intervention favored by the Futurists - is written in French and proposes a radical reform of dress: bright colors, asymmetries, dynamic lines, and functional simplicity.

The Futurist suit is the uniform of a new humanity in motion, driven by speed and decisive action.

The outbreak of the Great War

At the end of June 1914, in Sarajevo, the assassination of Archduke Franz Ferdinand sets off a chain reaction that, within a few weeks, drags Europe into war - the “war, the world’s only hygiene” invoked by Filippo Tommaso Marinetti in his Manifesto of Futurism (1909).

Italy, bound by the Triple Alliance yet uncertain about what to do, initially chooses neutrality.

It is in this climate of uncertainty and tension that the manifesto changes its nature.

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A Program Against Neutrality

On 11 September 1914 a new, expanded version of the manifesto appears. It is written in Italian, bearing a new and unmistakable title: Il vestito antineutrale. Manifesto futurista (The Anti-Neutral Suit. Futurist Manifesto).

It is more of a political rewriting than a simple translation of the French text; to get around censorship, its propaganda content was camouflaged behind the seemingly harmless topics of garments and colors.

The shift from the Futurist suit to the anti-neutral suit marks a qualitative leap: fashion becomes a tool of interventionism.

The declared target is the neutrality of the colors then in fashion, but the sartorial attack conceals a broader aim: Italy’s political neutrality.

Not by chance, the manifesto opens with two epigraphs that immediately set the tone. On the one hand, the famous line from the first Manifesto of Futurism of 1909:

We glorify war, the world’s only hygiene.

On the other, a reference less immediate yet rich in meaning:

Long live Asinari di Bernezzo!

the Risorgimento hero celebrated by Marinetti as early as 1910 for his irredentism.

The message is clear: war is seen as the completion of the Risorgimento, the settling of accounts with the Austro-Hungarian Empire, which still controls Trento and Trieste.

In the Anti-Neutral Suit this vision takes the form of a political program. The manifesto lists what “today we want to abolish”: neutral colors; pedantic, “Teutonic” shapes; striped and checked patterns; mourning clothes; symmetry; starched collars and cuffs; useless buttons.

It is a list that strikes at the heart of bourgeois taste, linking it to immobility, cowardice and death. Heroic deaths, it declares, should not be dressed in black, but remembered in red.

One thinks and acts as one dresses. Since neutrality is the synthesis of all forms of past-worship, we Futurists today brandish these anti-neutral suits, that is, joyfully warlike ones.

By contrast, the manifesto defines the qualities of Futurist clothing: it must be

1. aggressive, able to multiply the courage of the strong and unsettle the weak;

2. agile, to support the surge of running and charging;

3. dynamic, with geometric patterns that inspire a love of danger and a hatred of immobility;

4. simple and comfortable, suited to aiming a rifle or plunging into water;

5. hygienic, so the skin can breathe during marches;

6. joyful;

7. illuminating, made of phosphorescent fabrics, capable of igniting boldness, casting light when it rains, and correcting the greyness of dusk;

8. volitional, imperious like commands issued on the battlefield;

9. asymmetrical;

10. short-lived, to renew pleasure constantly;

11. variable, through “modifiers” (pneumatic buttons) that allow the garment’s shape to be changed at will.

The suit must be an amplifier of energy, almost a moral prosthesis.

Futurist shoes, of course, will be “fit to cheerfully kick all neutralists.”

And Futurist colors are vivid, “muscular”… As listed by the manifesto, they read like a Futurist poem in their own right:

violettissimi, rossissimi, turchinissimi, verdissimi, gialloni, aranciooooni, vermiglioni.

(purplest, reddest, turquoisest, greenest, big yellows, big oraaanges, vermilions.)

The manifesto is enriched by several models designed by artists of the group.

These include the white-red-green day suit (the Italian tricolor) by the “Futurist free-word poet Marinetti,” the red one-piece suit (the forerunner of the jumpsuit) by the Futurist painter Carrà, and the green sweater with red and white jacket by the “Futurist noise-artist Russolo, volunteer cyclist.”

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From Page to Street

In December 1914 a third version of the manifesto appears, a reprint of the official version but with a different image on the front page: the tricolor suit worn by the “Futurist free-word poet Cangiullo” during demonstrations against the neutralist professors of the University of Rome.

The caption specifies the context: the protests of 11–12 December 1914.

By now, the manifesto has become a militant document, tied to concrete events and real clashes. Within a few months, the Futurist suit has turned into the anti-neutral suit.

What has changed is not only the language, from French to Italian, but the very function of the project. Here, fashion does not serve to mark an aesthetic avant-garde, but to declare a political position.

The following year, on 24 May 1915, the Futurists finally get what they want: Italy enters the war against the Austro-Hungarian Empire. It is no surprise that many of them volunteer for the front, often paying with their lives for the consistency between ideas and actions.

In 1914, before the war is fought, Futurism puts it on. The dressed body becomes the first battlefield.

A quick look in the dictionary told me it means something like “someone taking advantage of the weak”. A theme that, unfortunately, seems to be quite fashionable these days.

Apart from the fact that the sound of the word is so pleasing that I would gladly start a petition to bring it back into use, its origin is just as curious and compelling.

The term comes from a certain Fabrizio Maramaldo, a Neapolitan mercenary captain active in sixteenth-century Italy.

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His military career is said to have begun after he was banished from his hometown for killing his first wife. An encouraging start.

He entered the service of powerful employers, among them the Gonzaga family and Emperor Charles V of Habsburg. In the Emperor’s service, he took part in the infamous Sack of Rome in 1527.

In 1530, still under imperial command, he marched against Florence, targeting the Florentine Republic which had expelled the Medici from power. It was in this context that captain Maramaldo made his name, leaving behind the word that would forever carry his infamy.

In August 1530, Maramaldo clashed with Florentine forces led by Francesco Ferrucci at the Battle of Gavinana. It seems the two men entered the confrontation carrying a considerable load of personal resentment.

Questions of wounded honor. During an earlier siege of Volterra, Ferrucci had ordered the killing of one of Maramaldo’s envoys, sent to demand the city’s surrender. For his part, Ferrucci had the man killed after he returned a second time. On the first occasion, he had merely been driven away, with the threat of hanging should he come back.

It is also said that the envoy was not, in fact, an envoy at all, but a simple drummer, and that this lack of respect enraged Ferrucci.

Be that as it may, Maramaldo’s troops prevailed at Gavinana. When the fighting was over, the wounded Ferrucci was brought before Maramaldo. Maramaldo struck him and then ordered his men to finish him off.

Before dying, Ferrucci is said to have uttered the famous words that sealed his enemy’s reputation: “You vile man, you kill a dead man.”

Or perhaps none of this happened at all.

It is unclear whether the episode truly occurred or whether it was later shaped by pro-republican propaganda. What is certain is that the image of the vile Maramaldo, in imperial pay, tormenting Ferrucci, the defender of liberty, was eagerly taken up by Risorgimento-era rhetoric.

In any case, only a few days after the Battle of Gavinana, Florence surrendered to the imperial forces and accepted the return of the Medici.

Maramaldo died in 1552, having retired from what was, by all accounts, a respectable military career.

Historical memory has not been kind to the Neapolitan mercenary captain: today, in Italy, calling someone a maramaldo is a picturesque insult, with a distinctly vintage flavor.

Read also:

That is what draws me to history: its ability to renew itself over time.

I try to keep myself updated on recent research connected to Italy’s past as a way of staying close to this process.

This selection brings together a small number of articles and studies that caught my attention over the past weeks. It is not meant as a comprehensive overview, but as a personal, curated snapshot of ongoing research and occasional findings.

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Fano and the possible Basilica of Vitruvius

During redevelopment works in the center of Fano, archaeologists uncovered the remains of a Roman basilica that closely match a building described by Vitruvius in De Architectura.

If the identification holds, this would be the first surviving structure that can be physically linked to the author of the most influential architectural treatise of antiquity.

Monumental Roman Basilica Identified as Long-Lost Work by Vitruvius (via Artnet)

Archaeological discoveries in Rome

Excavations along Via di Pietralata, on the eastern edge of Rome, have revealed a dense archaeological landscape of roads, tombs, cult spaces, and large basins.

Found far from the city’s most familiar sites, these remains point to forms of ancient activity that took place outside the monumental center and are still preserved beneath today’s suburbs.

Major archaeological discoveries in Rome: a sacellum, republican tombs and monumental basins (via Le Finestre sull’Arte)

Archaeogenetics and Bronze Age Southern Italy

A genetic study of a Middle Bronze Age burial site in southern Italy sheds new light on how small Protoapennine communities were organised, connected, and sustained in marginal landscapes.

Focusing on the remains from Grotta della Monaca, the research raises unexpected questions about kinship, mobility, and social norms in Bronze Age Southern Italy.

Archaeogenetics reconstructs demography and extreme parental consanguinity in a Bronze Age community from Southern Italy (via Nature)

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Frescoes from a Vesuvian villa

Fresh excavations at the Villa of Poppaea, long buried by Vesuvius beyond Pompeii itself, have brought back fragments of wall painting with an unusual mix of elegance and playfulness.

A mirrored peahen and a comic theatrical mask appear in a room whose layout has puzzled archaeologists for decades. The find opens a narrow window onto a villa still only partly understood.

Archaeologists Discover ‘Sumptuous’ Frescoes at Ancient Villa Preserved by Mount Vesuvius’ Eruption (via Smithsonian Magazine)

Bathing practices and mineral evidence in Pompeii

Mineral traces sealed beneath Vesuvius’s ash have opened an unexpected window onto how water moved through Pompeii long before Roman rule.

The study links bath infrastructure to Greek and Samnite practices and hints at daily conditions that feel far less idealised than marble ruins suggest.

Lava up: New mineral study reveals buried ‘dirt’ about bath time in ancient Pompeii (via Euronews)

Snow shoveler with frozen hands
Avon Fortunato, a tinsmith aged 63, living at San Polo 952, being unemployed, offered his services to the wardens overseeing the men shoveling the snow that had fallen days earlier.

On the 14th of this month, as he began this work, he developed symptoms of freezing in his hands and yesterday, in the doctor’s judgment, he had to go to the Hospital, where he was admitted and where he was declared likely to recover in 25 days, barring complications.

(Gazzetta di Venezia, Thursday 21 February 1929)

Mr. Avon Fortunato, a tinsmith by trade but unemployed at the time, was among the volunteers who at the beginning of 1929 made themselves available to the authorities to shovel snow in Venice.

In the early months of 1929 a major cold wave hit Europe, and Venice was not spared.

How does a city of water like Venice function when the water, its main means of communication, is frozen?

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Snowfall (January 1929)

Local reports told of a heavy snowfall at the end of January, one unlike any seen for a long time in Venice.

Venetians reacted with a mix of surprise and amusement: some brought out skis for a short run in St Mark’s Square, and children played snowball fights in the calli.

At the same time, the disruptions caused by the snow were not overlooked: cleaning and clearing the narrow Venetian streets and the 310 bridges that connected the city internally required a considerable amount of extra staff, volunteers such as Mr. Avon Fortunato, employed by the Municipality or by the company holding the contract for bridge maintenance.

There were numerous reports of falls due to ice, and even of injuries caused by snowballs rashly thrown by mischievous boys in the streets.

A drop in temperatures was expected for February, and it arrived on schedule.

Freeze (February 1929)

At the beginning of February, the so-called “Presages Office” of the Magistrato delle Acque recorded polar temperatures that led to the freezing of the lagoon.

Navigation grew increasingly difficult and, day after day, the city was gradually cut off. Moreover, links between one island and another were also blocked, and some resident families had to be assisted by military means.

Supplies from the mainland began to fail: first milk, then vegetables, eggs, fish and meat. In the mornings, water pipes were frozen, causing problems even for sanitary facilities.

Trains were delayed or failed to arrive altogether. Even the luxury train, the Orient Simplon Express, built up serious delays:

Yesterday at 3.14 p.m. the Orient Simplon Express arrived in Venice… from the day before. Due to violent snowstorms encountered in Yugoslavia, it had built up an exceptionally large delay of twenty-seven and a half hours; it was in fact scheduled to arrive at 11.42 on Monday morning.

(Gazzetta di Venezia, Tuesday 5 February 1929)

The freeze severely affected the much-anticipated Venetian Carnival: “this year, whether or not due to atmospheric elements allied against all outdoor amusement and all square festivities, Carnival did not exist” (Gazzetta di Venezia, Monday 11 February 1929).

And further:

It seemed that the harsh breath of an imported bora wind, since Venice does not recall an equally violent one blowing from the first quadrant, penetrated even into buildings.

As a result, the vigils and festivities organized indoors were affected by the general icy conditions and could not provide the press with enough material to note the traditional crowds of the past.

(Gazzetta di Venezia, Monday 11 February 1929)

To the rhythm marked by the bulletins of the Presages Office, frequent falls of men were recorded and, on the mainland, also of horses, especially in the area of the Mestre railway station.

Shelters for the poor overflowed with homeless and indigents who could not afford heated housing. Some unfortunate individuals died frozen.

Since the ice prevented the use of funeral boats, the authorities converted two vaporetti to transport coffins to the cemetery.

Icebreaker

By an irony of fate, on those very days a film entitled “Krassin” was being shown in preview at the Teatro Malibran.

Krassin was the name of a Soviet icebreaker ship that the year before had played a key role in the rescue of the airship Italia, wrecked on the Arctic pack ice.

The airship Italia was part of a scientific expedition to the North Pole led by Umberto Nobile and financed by the Italian state. During the return journey, on 25 May 1928, it crashed onto the Arctic ice because of a storm.

The survivors set up camp on the pack in a tent coloured with red paint recovered on board, the “red tent”, which became the reference point for the searches.

The rescue operations lasted forty-nine days, caused the death of nine men and also cost the life of the famous explorer Roald Amundsen, who disappeared while taking part in the searches with his seaplane.

The Gazzetta reports that some boats used in those cold days to ply the frozen lagoon were nicknamed “Krassin”: this was the case of boat number 5, which ensured the connection with the island of Sacca Sessola, home of a sanatorium for the treatment of tuberculosis.

Winter games

The spectacle attracted hordes of amateur photographers “armed with Kodaks”, who walked across the frozen lagoon and portrayed this unusual sight.

There were those who explored the lagoon on skates, on skis or on snowshoes.

It is reported that at midday, to faithfully recreate the scene, a group of cheerful revellers (heaven forbid there should be none in this world!) carried a table, chairs, food and a stove onto the ice, and set themselves a small lunch laid out according to all the rules.

(Gazzetta di Venezia, Sunday 17 February 1929)

Toward the end of February the freeze began to ease and the lagoon, slowly, freed itself.

Boats resumed crossing the canals and life began to flow again in the calli.

A few months later, the Gazzetta announced on its front page: “The new Statute of the Fascist Party – ‘The Party is a civil militia at the service of the Nation’”.

On the last page, on that same day, a small article also appeared: “Cyclone on the New York Stock Exchange – Billions of dollars lost to speculation”.

It was 30 October 1929.

We, Laurentius the Captain aforesaid, (…) decree that the said Matteuccia, having been personally brought before us, that she may not glory in her wickedness and depravity, nor that others, desiring to attempt like deeds, may take example from her, shall be made a public example:

with a mitre placed upon her head, and her hands bound behind her back, she shall be set upon a certain ass, and shall be led and conducted personally to the public place of justice accustomed, where such judgments of justice are wont to be executed (…).

And there she shall be burned with fire, in such wise and manner that she shall utterly die, and that her soul shall be separated from her body.

[translation and emphasis (bold) are mine]

We know very little about Matteuccia di Francesco, who was sentenced to death by fire as a witch in the Umbrian town of Todi on March 20, 1428.

What we do know comes from the trial records: Matteuccia came from the small village of Ripabianca, in the countryside around Todi, a modest community in central Italy.

Her biography is brief; the list of accusations against her, much longer.

Hers is among the earliest documented witch trials in Italy, decades before Europe’s great wave of persecutions swept through the sixteenth century.

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The Accusations

Matteuccia di Francesco (…) a woman of evil life and reputation, a public enchantress, sorceress, and witch, against whom, by the manner and procedure of inquisition, we have proceeded formally, because (…) it came to the ears and notice of the said lord Captain and of his court that the said Matteuccia had not God before her eyes, but rather the enemy of humankind.

(…) many and innumerable times she did enchant the bodies, heads, and other members of the afflicted, both personally and also by signs which she carried upon herself, such as girdles, caps, and other like things, for the aforesaid and other infirmities; and with bands or cords, measuring the said girdles, she would utter her enchantments to many and diverse persons, in divers places and times.

[translation and emphasis (bold) are mine]

The cold, methodical language of the notary strikes like a hammer: slow, rhythmic, inescapable.

Each new “Item non contenta predictis…” (“not content with the crimes already described”) adds another blow, pushing Matteuccia further into a corner.

Then comes the climax: the confession. Voluntary, the notary insists.

And since it is manifest to us and to our court that all and every of the aforesaid things contained in the said inquisition are true, in the places and times expressed in the said inquisition, as appears from the lawful confessions of the said Matteuccia, inquisited, made before us and our court, spontaneously and lawfully in judgment.

And because she has thus spontaneously confessed, she has declared herself to renounce her defence and the time granted for her defence.

[translation and emphasis (bold) are mine]

What follows is the formal condemnation, the humiliating procession through the town, and the fire.

The story of Matteuccia ends here: one of the first, not the last, of an age that was beginning to call itself “modern”.

Matteuccia’s Remedies

Matteuccia was a woman of the people, and it was to her that people turned for relief from pain or for a cure for a wounded heart.

From the surviving papers emerges a small world where the ailments of the body and of the soul blend with ritual religion, superstition and sensuality.

She is said to have spoken incantations to ease her clients’ suffering: some, apparently, worked; others, apparently, brought death.
There is a paradox here: spells intended to heal also became evidence of a pact with the devil.

Matteuccia’s specialty was love magic: wives seeking to rekindle desire, betrayed women, those wishing to avoid pregnancy and men yearning for another man’s wife —all turned to her.

For each of them, Matteuccia had an answer.

A certain man and his wife from the castle of Collismedio, in the county of Todi, went to the castle of Ripabianca.
The said wife went to Matteuccia, complaining of her husband and saying that he treated her badly; therefore she begged Matteuccia to give her some remedy whereby her husband might restore to her the gifts he had formerly given and cease to despise and insult her, as he did every day.

And the said Matteuccia gave to the aforesaid woman an egg and an herb called “costa cavallina”, and told her to cook them together and give them to her husband to eat, assuring her that thus he would fall in love with her again.

And after some days, as the said woman did according to her instruction, the husband, enamoured and almost mad with love, remained in such condition for three days.

[translation and emphasis (bold) are mine]

Her remedies ranged from harmless (hair, water, salt) to disturbing (the belt of a virgin girl) and macabre (the bones of pagan dead exhumed from their graves, the fat of a drowned man, the blood of children).

Sacred and Profane

In the formulas Matteuccia spoke, Christianity was far from absent. She invoked Christ, the Virgin, saints and holy women who blessed, commanded, protected.

In 1426, it is said, she healed the sick by throwing three grains of salt into the fire while reciting this spell:

Worm, little worm, who holdest heart and soul,
who holdest little lungs,
who holdest little liver,
who holdest the moving of the nose,
who holdest the moving of the head,
who holdest the moving of the feet,
who holdest every good of man.

Saint Susanna casts linen forth,
Saint Jolecta throws linen forth,
Saint Bruna turns to the backside and throws linen forth —
one by one, until none shall remain.
Amen.

[translation, formatting and emphasis (bold) are mine]

The spell has the cadence of a prayer: saints called by name, and an Amen to conclude. It borrows from the liturgy, learned by heart and repurposed to heal a body, or to bind a heart.

It is religion (and medicine) spoken in the idiom of ordinary people, reusing familiar symbols like candles and wine and imbuing them with magical meaning.

Sacred and profane coexisted in the same hand, a woman’s hand.

And it is precisely in that confusion between prayer and spell, between blessing and curse administered by someone outside official authority, that suspicion quietly took hold.

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March 20, 1428

The sentence was carried out on March 20, 1428.

Matteuccia was led through the streets of Todi on the back of a donkey, her hands tied behind her, a mitre of infamy on her head.

The procession wound through the city before the final act: the public burning, both warning and spectacle, both punishment and purification.

Those who watched her pass that day were the same people who had once turned to her, seeking a remedy, a word, a fragment of hope that poverty had denied them.

Many of them had become her accusers.

The act was completed and order restored. The notary recorded the execution, signed, and closed the file with the usual formula.

That is all that remains of Matteuccia.

Bibliography

• Peruzzi, Candida. Un processo di stregoneria a Todi del ‘400. Lares, vol. 21, no. 1–2, Leo S. Olschki Editore, 1955, pp. 1–17.

• “Matteuccia di Francesco da Todi” Enciclopedia delle donne, accessed October 2025.

(…) For though his messengers came on the run and found the guards as yet aware of nothing, when they opened the doors they found Cleopatra lying dead upon a golden couch, arrayed in royal state.

And of her two women, the one called Iras was dying at her feet, while Charmion, already tottering and heavy-handed, was trying to arrange the diadem which encircled the queen's brow. Then somebody said in anger: "A fine deed, this, Charmion!" "It is indeed most fine," she said, "and befitting the descendant of so many kings." Not a word more did she speak, but fell there by the side of the couch.

(From The Parallel Lives by Plutarch, Antony, 85)

This is how Plutarch described Cleopatra's end: lying on a golden couch, dressed as a queen, her attendants beside her until the last breath. The scene has traveled through centuries, unchanged.

Behind the scene, remains the enigma: how did Cleopatra really die?

Plutarch, writing more than a century after Cleopatra’s death (30 BC), reported several versions. Some claimed she let herself be bitten by a serpent, perhaps smuggled in a basket of figs. Others spoke of a poison concealed in a hollow hairpin.

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Plutarch himself had noted the queen's familiarity with toxic substances:

Moreover, Cleopatra was getting together collections of all sorts of deadly poisons, and she tested the painless working of each of them by giving them to prisoners under sentence of death. But when she saw that the speedy poisons enhanced the sharpness of death by the pain they caused, while the milder poisons were not quick, she made trial of venomous animals, watching with her own eyes as they were set upon another.

She did this daily, tried them almost all; and she found that the bite of the asp alone induced a sleepy torpor and sinking, where there was no spasm or groan, but a gentle perspiration on the face, while the perceptive faculties were easily relaxed and dimmed, and resisted all attempts to rouse and restore them, as is the case with those who are soundly asleep.

(From The Parallel Lives by Plutarch, Antony, 71)

Cleopatra possessed at least basic knowledge of medicine, and she is said to have prepared her own cosmetics.

She lived in Alexandria, a city that had been one of antiquity's premier medical centers since Hellenistic times. The local medical tradition had developed a strong expertise in pharmacology and toxicology: Galen even records that cobras were used there to grant a condemned prisoner a quick and merciful death.

So, in Cleopatra's circles the effects of various poisons would have been familiar territory.

The choice of poison carried a meaning beyond practicality. The cobra, associated with the pharaonic uraeus, was a regal emblem, and Cleopatra could have chosen this form of death for its resonance.

Modern scholars, however, have revisited these testimonies and generally consider the snake-bite theory the least likely. It would have posed too many practical problems: a serpent large enough to kill several people hidden in a basket, visible bite marks, and the long interval required before the poison took effect.

By contrast, a cardiotoxic or paralyzing substance could explain the rapid death and the absence of marks on the body, except for ‘two slight and indistinct punctures,’ as Plutarch reports. A poison concealed in a hairpin fits better with the details transmitted.

Some have gone further, suggesting a disguised assassination.

Octavian had the motive: to eliminate a political rival who might become a symbol of resistance. He also had the means: his court had physicians capable of preparing a lethal mixture that simulated a snake-bite.

A political murder presented as suicide would have avoided unrest in Egypt. After all, Octavian also had Caesarion, Cleopatra's son by Julius Caesar, executed for the same dynastic reasons.

But the assassination theory has gaps: some argue that Cleopatra, as a defeated enemy, could have been executed publicly without such elaborate staging.

Suetonius adds another detail: Augustus, finding Cleopatra dying and wishing to display her alive in his triumph, called for a snake-charmer to suck out the poison. He had no luck.

The anecdote tells us more about the myth than the reality, but it shows how closely the serpent’s image was tied to the queen.

Perhaps the serpent was involved, but the poison did not come from a bite.

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Strabo and Galen had already suggested that Cleopatra might have used a toxic ointment, applied to a self-inflicted wound or to skin broken with her teeth. Galen imagined that she could have pierced her own flesh with a bite, then smeared it with snake venom.

A more intimate, almost ritual gesture:

She wounded her arm with a very large and deep bite. Then, having procured a vessel, she collected the animal’s venom in it and poured it over the wound; thus, as the poison spread, she was soon able to die with ease, escaping the vigilance of the guards.

(From Galen, De theriaca ad Pisonem, 237)

So many theories are possible. Plutarch concluded with an admission which, after all, still holds true: “the truth of the matter no one knows.”

And it is precisely this uncertainty that makes the scene unforgettable.

Cleopatra was not paraded in chains in Rome, as Octavian wished, nor did she die as any common enemy. On the golden couch, with the diadem adjusted by her last attendant, Cleopatra had already slipped beyond his reach.

That day, she lost a kingdom, but won immortality.

Bibliography

• Plutarch, Parallel Lives, Vol. IX, Loeb Classical Library, 1920.

• Galen, De theriaca ad Pisonem, 237 (translation is mine).

• Retief, F.P. & Cilliers, L. “The death of Cleopatra.” Acta Theologica, Supplementum 7 (2005): 79–92.

• Tsoucalas, G. & Sgantzos, M. “The Death of Cleopatra: Suicide by Snakebite or Poisoned by Her Enemies?”, in: Philip Wexler (ed.), History of Toxicology and Environmental Health. Elsevier, 2014.

• Rosso, A.M. “Toxicology and snakes in Ptolemaic Egyptian dynasty: The suicide of Cleopatra.” Toxicology Reports 8 (2021): 676–695.

(…) Michelangelo had already completed more than three quarters of the work when Pope Paul went to see it. Messer Biagio da Cesena, master of ceremonies and a scrupulous man, who was present in the chapel with the Pope, was asked what he thought of it. He replied that it was most improper to have so many nudes in such a revered place, all so shamelessly displaying their private parts, and that it was more fitting for baths and taverns than for a papal chapel.

This displeased Michelangelo, who wanted revenge. As soon as Biagio had left, he painted him from memory, without needing him to pose, placing him in Hell as Minos, with a large serpent wrapped around his legs amidst a throng of devils.

And neither Messer Biagio's pleas to the Pope nor to Michelangelo were enough to have him removed, the figure was left there as a reminder, and can still be seen today.

(Giorgio Vasari, Le vite de' più eccellenti pittori, scultori e architettori ed. 1568)

Few anecdotes in art history offer such perfect symmetry between crime and punishment. A papal functionary criticizes the nudity in Michelangelo's Last Judgment; the artist responds by painting him naked for eternity, his genitals gnawed by a serpent in hell.

Giorgio Vasari tells the story with evident relish, and it has been repeated ever since with the same satisfaction.

What gets lost in the retelling is that Biagio da Cesena was no prudish amateur offering uninformed aesthetic opinions.

Biagio's harsh criticism…

He was, in fact, hardly a minor functionary. Since 1518, Biagio had served as Master of Ceremonies to four popes, organizing the conclaves that elected Adriano VI (1522), Clement VII (1523), and Paul III (1534).

His family belonged to Cesena's Guelf nobility. He held degrees in civil and canon law, had worked for decades as a lawyer and notary in the papal Curia before his ceremonial appointment. His diaries chronicle the Sack of Rome (1527), diplomatic meetings with Charles V and Francis I, the debates on Henry VIII’s divorce and the daily ceremonial life of the papal court.

The role of Master of Ceremonies was far more significant than the title suggests. Biagio was responsible for orchestrating every aspect of papal liturgy, including the precise sequence of vestments, the timing of processions, the protocols for receiving foreign ambassadors, and the choreography of papal masses.

He was the Vatican's institutional guardian, the man who ensured that the majesty of the papacy was expressed through flawless ceremonial performance.

When Pope Paul III brought Biagio to see Michelangelo's nearly finished Last Judgment [N.B. the Last Judgment was officially unveiled on October 31, 1541], the fresco covered the entire altar wall: over 300 muscular figures across 1,800 square feet.

According to Vasari, Paul asked his Master of Ceremonies what he thought. Biagio's response was direct: the abundance of nude flesh was "disonestissima" in such a place, shamelessly showing "le lor vergogne". This was work fit for "stufe e osterie," not a papal chapel.

His criticism carried weight because of his position: Biagio spoke as the Vatican's guardian of liturgical propriety, the man responsible for ensuring papal ceremonies maintained appropriate dignity.

Michelangelo's muscular saints, rendered with anatomical precision that left nothing hidden, violated the sacred decorum that Biagio spent his career protecting.

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… and Michelangelo's even harsher response

Michelangelo's response was sharp and permanent.

In the lower right corner of the fresco, among the damned being ferried to hell, he painted Minos, the underworld judge from Dante's Inferno. This figure has donkey ears and writhes as a serpent coils around his body, fangs sunk into his genitals.

The face was that of Biagio da Cesena.

Biagio, furious, appealed to Paul III to force Michelangelo to remove the likeness. The Pope's response, it is said, may be legend: had Michelangelo placed Biagio in purgatory, the Pope might have intervened, but his jurisdiction did not extend to hell!

Whether Paul made this remark is uncertain, but the portrait remained. Biagio's protests came to nothing. Giorgio Vasari, writing in 1550, notes simply that Michelangelo left it there for memory, where it can still be seen.

Counter-Reformation concerns

But time would prove Biagio's instincts correct.

His reaction to the fresco's nudity anticipated broader Church concerns that would reshape Catholic art. The Council of Trent opened in 1545, about a year after Biagio died, and ended up establishing stricter guidelines for religious imagery.

By 1565, the Church commissioned Daniele da Volterra to cover the offending anatomy with drapery. The artist earned the nickname "Il Braghettone" (the breeches-maker).

When Michelangelo began work in 1536, Rome was still recovering from the 1527 Sack. German mercenaries, together with famine and disease, had killed much of the city's population. Many interpreted the catastrophe as divine punishment for Church corruption.

Paul III's "Last Judgment" commission served multiple functions: artistic patronage, theological statement, and institutional response to Protestant attacks on Catholic excess.

Michelangelo delivered a vision of unprecedented physicality. His Christ, muscular as a classical Apollo, raises his hand in judgment while the dead rise in actual bodies, not as spirits. The work affirmed Catholic doctrine about bodily resurrection while displaying Michelangelo's belief that the nude human form represented God's finest creation.

Michelangelo lived until 1564, luckily not long enough to watch Daniele da Volterra add modest draperies to his triumphant saints.

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The face that might not be Biagio

But there is an alternative version of this story.

In 1544, three years after the unveiling of the Last Judgment, a satirical sonnet circulated in Rome and was later preserved in the Vatican Library. It makes no mention of Biagio da Cesena.

Instead, it identifies Minos as Pierluigi Farnese, the pope’s own son, whose reputation was already darkened by the violent death of Bishop of Fano, a killing described in the sonnet with unflinching crudity.

The verse belonged to the tradition of the pasquinate, anonymous lampoons posted in public spaces, where Rome’s grievances and scandals were aired without restraint.

Whether Michelangelo truly intended such an allusion remains uncertain; contemporary readers of the sonnet, however, were quick to connect it with the figure on the altar wall, giving Minos a political face the Farnese would have preferred to erase.

Vasari, writing in 1550, repeats the Biagio story, which by then was already the accepted version.

The truth is likely to remain unsettled, and the figure still carries more than one possible identity.

Bibliography

Giorgio Vasari, Le vite de' più eccellenti pittori, scultori e architettori (ed. 1568)

Quel che si nasconde nella figura di Minosse by Antonio Forcellino

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On April 24, 1604, they became the cause of yet another of his many run-ins with Roman authorities.

The incident occurred at the Osteria del Moro, located on Via della Maddalena, near the Pantheon, in Rome's Campo Marzio district. Pietro da Fusaccia, a waiter at the tavern, served eight cooked artichokes to the artist and his two companions.

Caravaggio asked which had been prepared with butter and which with oil. The waiter's response (too vague? too indifferent?) sparked his fury.

The waiter's own testimony, preserved in the police files of the Archivio di Stato, recounts the scene with bureaucratic precision:

Circa le 17 hore stando detto querelato assieme a doi altri a magnare nell'hosteria del Moro, alla Maddalena, dove io sto per garzone et havendoli portato otto carcioffi cotti cioè quattro nel buturo e quattro con olio, detto querelato mi ha dimandato quali erano quelli al buturo et quelli all'olio. Io li ho risposto: che li odorasse, che facilmente haverebbe conosciuto quali erano cotti nel buturo et quelli che erano all'olio. Lui allora è montato in collera e senza dirmi altro ha preso un piatto di terra et me l'ha tirato alla volta del mostaccio, che me ha colto in questa guancia manca dove sono restato un poco ferito. Et poi si è dirizzato et ha dato di mano alla spada di un suo compagno che stava su la tavola con animo forse di darmi con ella, ma io me gli sono levato dinanzi et sono venuto qua all'officio a darne querela…"

At about half past twelve while the accused was eating with two others at the Osteria del Moro in Maddalena, where I work as a waiter, having brought him eight cooked artichokes, that is four in butter and four with oil, the accused asked me which were the ones with butter and which with oil. I answered him: smell them, that he would easily have known which were cooked in butter and which were with oil. He then became angry and without saying anything else took a clay dish and threw it at my face, hitting me on this left cheek where I remained slightly wounded. And then he straightened up and reached for his companion's sword that was on the table, perhaps intending to strike me with it, but I got away from him and came here to the office to file a complaint...

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By April 1604, Caravaggio moved through Rome with the particular volatility of a man caught between triumph and catastrophe. His paintings commanded the most prestigious commissions: the Contarelli Chapel at San Luigi dei Francesi had established his reputation, the Cerasi Chapel at Santa Maria del Popolo had confirmed his genius. Cardinals competed for his work. The Marchese Vincenzo Giustiniani collected his canvases with obsessive devotion, accumulating fifteen works.

Yet police records show a pattern of complaints, unpaid rents, and violent encounters. He was first reported in 1598 for carrying weapons without a permit and was repeatedly detained for brawls, threats, and public insults. The precarious foundation of his success was already evident.

Another witness, Pietro Antonio del Madii, reported the painter's exact words:

Era a pranzo all'hostaria del Moro ove da altra banda ci era Michelangelo da Caravaggio pittore. Intesi dimandare da lui se i carcioffi erano all'olio o al burro, essendo tutti in un piatto. Il garzone disse: Non lo so; et ne pigliò uno et se lo mise al naso. Il che havendo hauto a male Michelangelo si levò in piedi in collera et gli disse: 'Se ben mi pare, becco fottuto, ti credi di servire qualche barone.' Et prese quel piatto con dentro i carciofori e lo tirò al garzone nel viso. Non vidi Michelangiolo cacciar mano alla spasa contro lo stesso.

He was dining at the Osteria del Moro where on the other side was Michelangelo da Caravaggio the painter. I heard him ask if the artichokes were with oil or butter, all being on one plate. The waiter said: I don't know; and took one and put it to his nose. Taking offense at this, Michelangelo stood up in anger and said to him: 'It seems to me, you fucking cuckold, you think you're serving some baron.' And he took that plate with the artichokes inside and threw it at the waiter's face. I did not see Michelangelo draw his sword against him.

In Roman idiom, barone could carry a touch of irony — less a nobleman than someone merely playing the part. Caravaggio's outburst wasn't about being mistaken for one, but about being treated as if he weren't worth the seriousness owed to a real client.

For a painter who had risen to prominence and moved with the confidence of a recognized master, yet by most accounts remained acutely sensitive to the traces of his low-born origins, the waiter's offhand manner must have felt like a denial of earned respect.

Even the food on the table subtly reflected this tension. The choice of preparation methods carried its own significance: butter marked northern cooking, the taste of Caravaggio’s Lombard origins; oil belonged to Roman tradition, cheaper and more durable in the southern climate. That the osteria served both suggests a clientele navigating between regional habits, northerners like Caravaggio adapting to Roman life while retaining traces of home.

The legal aftermath proved brief. Cardinal Francesco Maria del Monte, Caravaggio's protector and sometime host at Palazzo Madama, likely intervened. The case was dismissed from court records without a conviction.

Pietro returned to his duties, while the painter continued his twin careers of artistic brilliance and public violence. Between October and November 1604, he was arrested twice more: once for throwing stones at police officers, once for insulting an official who dared check his weapons permit.

Two years later, in the same Campo Marzio district, another moment of violence would end with Ranuccio Tomassoni dead and Caravaggio fleeing Rome forever.

More than two centuries later, the defense of honor returned… not in a Roman tavern, but outside Paris, and led by a far less likely figure: Marcel Proust.

But Tanaquil came from Tarquinia: she was Etruscan, and this changed everything.

According to the account given by Livy, Tanaquil belonged to the highest aristocracy of Tarquinia. She had married Lucumo, son of Demaratus of Corinth, a Greek who had fled his homeland during political upheavals and settled in Etruria. Lucumo had inherited considerable wealth, but remained always the son of a refugee. The Etruscans marginalized him for his foreign origins.

It was Tanaquil who could not tolerate this disgrace and convinced her husband to seek his fortune elsewhere. Rome seemed perfect to her: a city of new people, where one became noble quickly and based on merit. For an ambitious man like Lucumo, Rome represented the opportunity that Tarquinia denied him.

So they gathered their possessions and departed.

The Prodigy of the Eagle

By chance, a strong wind had arisen on the Janiculum. There, as he sat in his carriage with his wife, an eagle with wings softly outspread swooped down and took his cap, then flew above the carriage with a loud cry, and as if sent by divine agency, placed it neatly back upon his head. Then it soared away.
Tanaquil, said to be skilled, as Etruscan women generally were, in interpreting heavenly signs, is reported to have received the omen with joy.
She embraced her husband and urged him to hope for lofty and great things. That bird, she said, had come as a messenger from that region of the sky and from that god. It had made its auspice around the highest part of the man. It had lifted the symbol of human dignity from his head, only to return it as a divine gift.

Lucumo, who called himself Lucius Tarquinius Priscus in Rome, indeed became the fifth king of Rome.

The Prodigy of Fire

Livy speaks again of Tanaquil on the occasion of a second prodigious event:

At that time, a prodigy occurred in the royal palace, marvellous both to see and in its outcome. They say that the head of a sleeping boy, whose name was Servius Tullius, caught fire in the sight of many.
A great outcry arose at the wonder of such a thing, and the king and queen were awakened.
When one of the attendants brought water to extinguish the flames, he was stopped by the queen, who calmed the commotion and forbade anyone to touch the boy until he woke up on his own.
Soon, both the fire and the sleep vanished together.

Tanaquil then took her husband aside and said:

Do you see this boy (…) whom we are raising in such humble condition? You may be sure that one day he will be a light to our uncertain fortunes and a protection to our troubled royal house. Let us therefore nurture, with all our care, this source of great honor both public and private.

From that moment, Servius was treated like a son, educated for power and prepared for succession.

Tanaquil had orchestrated this prodigy too: she stopped the panic, managed the scene and transformed an inexplicable event into a dynastic investment.

After making one king, Tanaquil was creating another.

When Tarquinius was assassinated, struck down by two shepherds hired by the sons of Ancus Marcius, the previous king, Tanaquil took charge of every detail of the transition.

The palace was closed on her orders. Eyewitnesses disappeared. She procured what was needed to stitch the wound, as if there were still hope.

Then she called Servius, showed him her husband's nearly lifeless body and said:

The kingdom is yours, Servius, if you are a man. It does not belong to those who committed a vile crime using the hands of others.
Rise up and follow the gods as your guides. They once foretold that this head would be illustrious, when it was surrounded by divine fire.
Let that heavenly flame awaken you now. Rise and truly awaken.
We too have ruled, though we were foreigners. Think about who you are, not where you were born.
If your own plans are numbed by this sudden turn, then follow mine.

When the crowd's uproar became unbearable, Tanaquil appeared at the window overlooking the Via Nova and spoke to the people. The king had been struck treacherously, she said, but the blade had not penetrated deeply. Soon they would be able to see him again.

In the meantime, they should obey Servius Tullius.

Tanaquil “adloquitur populum”, Livy writes. She addresses the people. Not the servants, not the court: the Roman populus. This was not a domestic conversation, but a public act of authority. Her voice fills the gap left by a dying king.

For several days, Servius governed pretending to be a temporary substitute, while consolidating power. Only afterward was Tarquinius's death announced, when the succession could no longer be contested.

According to the tradition, Servius Tullius ruled for more than forty years. And no one remembered anymore whether he was the son of a slave or a noble: even origins can be rewritten, if someone knows how.

Cracks in the Narrative

What does Livy tell us about Tanaquil?

She is a woman of noble origins, proud and resolute, who, being an Etruscan, knows the haruspicial arts and, above all, knows how to turn them to her advantage.

She, who can recognize royal qualities even in a child raised as a servant, will raise him to become her husband's successor.

In the heated moments of regicide, she will be the one not to lose her composure and to plan the investiture (which was not hereditary) of Servius Tullius through a clever stratagem.

Servius (…) was the first to reign without the people's command, but with the senators' consent.

Livy's judgment of Tanaquil emerges indirectly, through the words of others. When Tullia, daughter of Servius Tullius, incites her husband Tarquinius to usurp the throne, she complains bitterly:

With these and other reproaches, she goaded the young man on. Nor could she find peace herself, seeing that Tanaquil, a foreign woman, had been able to act with such boldness of spirit that she gave the kingship first to her husband and then to her son-in-law, while she, born of royal blood, had no influence in giving or taking away the crown.

Livy is recounting Tullia's wickedness, but inadvertently reveals Tanaquil's political effectiveness. Even a king's daughter acknowledges her inability to achieve what the Etruscan foreigner had accomplished through schemes and strategy.

Several decades later, Pliny the Elder remembered her differently:

Marcus Varro reports that the wool on the distaff and spindle of Tanaquil, who was also called Gaia Caecilia, had lasted in the temple of Sancus, and that she had woven the wavy royal toga kept in the temple of Fortuna, which had been worn by Servius Tullius.
From this originated the custom that a decorated distaff and a spindle with thread would accompany virgin brides.
She was the first to weave the tunica recta, the straight tunic worn with the toga pura by both young men coming of age and newly married women.

Over time, the powerful figure of Tanaquil was filtered through safer virtues.

Pliny and Varro do not speak of her voice or her role in managing royal succession. They remember her hands: spinning wool, weaving garments, setting bridal customs.

The queen who once spoke to the people became Gaia Caecilia, patroness of order, of looms, of weddings.

There is no contradiction, perhaps - but something went silent.

Bibliography

Livy, Ab Urbe condita, Book I.

Pliny the Elder, Naturalis Historia, Book VIII.

Renaissance men had other ideas.

They padded these flaps with horsehair or straw, crafted them from velvet or silk, and embroidered them with gold thread and pearls.

What began as a practical solution became a theatrical assertion of masculinity.

By the 1540s, these "convenient pockets" were used to hold little objects like handkerchiefs and coins.

But their true purpose was never in doubt: a bold, protruding advertisement of virility and fertility.

Codpieces also appeared in metal, integrated into parade armor.

In portraiture, they featured prominently, rendered in velvet, brocade, or steel, sometimes shaped like shells or wedges, sometimes rounded and aggressively swollen.

Young men wore them proudly.

Sumptuary laws often restricted silks and ornamentation, but codpieces, perhaps due to their association with military attire and virility, remained exempt in many contexts.

Henry VIII’s codpieces became legendary. Painters like Holbein and sculptors at court reinforced the message: power, lineage, and potency were all encoded in fabric.

But excess invites ridicule. Writers like Montaigne mocked them as empty and useless.

Fashion turned elsewhere: padded doublets, grand collars, assertive shoulders. Masculine focus shifted upward.

By the 1590s, the codpiece had quietly disappeared, absorbed into the history of vanished silhouettes.

What remains are portraits where Renaissance masculinity still bulges with a confidence we can barely comprehend today.

• Portrait of Emperor Charles V (1533) by Tiziano

• Portrait of Henry VIII (1536/7) by Hans Holbein The Younger

• Portrait of an 18yo man (1544) by Georg Pencz

• Portrait of Archduke Ferdinand of Tyrol (1548) by Jakob Seisenegger

• Portrait of Lodovico Capponi (1551) by Agnolo Bronzino

• Portrait of Alessandro Farnese (after 1559) by Alonso Sánchez Coello

Does the constant presence of wine on his table reveal a man of indulgence or simply mirror the customs of Renaissance dining?

And what flavors lingered in that fennel soup, steeped in the spices of his time?

These three seemingly mundane notations on his shopping list became doorways into a broader world. Each dish carries a story beyond its ingredients.

Tortelli speak of ingenuity in the kitchen, where cooks transformed whatever was in the pantry into artful pasta. Wine flowed through daily life as both necessity and pleasure, its presence shaped by practical needs and divine ritual. Fennel soup, despite its simplicity, preserved the medieval passion for bold spices while embracing Renaissance refinement.

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Through these three elements of Michelangelo's market notes, we discover how one of history's greatest artists shared in the daily rhythms of Renaissance dining.

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Tortelli

In Michelangelo's shopping list, tortelli are mentioned twice, emphasizing their popularity in Renaissance cuisine and their appeal to Michelangelo.

The term tortello, a diminutive of torta, referred to a sheet of pasta filled with various ingredients—meat, fish, vegetables, or sweet fillings. This versatility contributed to their widespread presence since the Middle Ages, making them a common and adaptable dish suited to various tastes and occasions.

The Tuscan fondness for tortelli is also recalled in "Morgante," an epic burlesque poem by Florentine poet Luigi Pulci published in 1478. In this work, which blends heroic and humorous episodes, the character Margutte praises earthly pleasures, including food and drink, with these lines:

Ma sopra tutto nel buon vino ho fede,
E credo che sia salvo chi gli crede.
E credo nella torta e nel tortello,
L’uno è la madre, e l’altro è il suo figliuolo.

But above all, in good wine I believe,
And I trust that those who believe in it are saved.
And I believe in the cake and in the tortello,
The first is the mother, and the second is her child.

With these verses, Pulci celebrates tortelli as food and elevates them to a symbol of the simple, earthly pleasures that shaped daily life in the Renaissance.

The poem's irony highlights the contrast between these tangible joys and the lofty ideals celebrated in the epic poetry of the time, reaffirming the importance of food in everyday existence.

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Fennel Soup

Given his connections with Rome's elite circles, including the papal court, Michelangelo was likely familiar with recipes like those described in Bartolomeo Scappi's monumental cookbook.

Scappi, the personal cook to Pope Pius V (1566–1572), published his treatise in 1570, just a few years after Michelangelo's death. His work provides a detailed portrait of Renaissance cooking, with over a thousand recipes reflecting the culinary sophistication of the era, from everyday meals to elaborate feasts.

Scappi's work is more than just a cookbook—it is a detailed manual on food preparation, covering everything from the treatment of meats and fish to desserts and vegetable dishes. One section even addresses cucina di magro, meals designed for religious fasting periods like Lent. The treatise also provides insights into the tools and layout of Renaissance kitchens, illustrating the complexity of culinary practices during this time.

Among the many recipes Scappi recorded, the minestra di finocchi selvatici (wild fennel soup) is a good example of the simplicity and refinement of Renaissance cuisine. Its preparation reflects the Renaissance balance between resourcefulness and a preference for intense, aromatic flavors inherited from the Middle Ages.

Here is the recipe as Scappi recorded it. With some imagination, one can envision Michelangelo enjoying a similar dish during the early 1500s.

Piglisi il finocchio nella sua stagione (…) dico quei germugli bianchi che nascono ne i piedi delli finocchi seluaggi, leuisi la prima scorza, et piglisi la parte piu tenera, lauinosi, et faccianosene mazzuoli come delli broccoli, et ponganosi in un uaso nel qual sia oglio, acqua, et sale, et faccianosi cuocere bene, et per far spesso il bordo pongauisi una mollica di pane che sia stata in molle nel brodo, et passata per lo foratoro, aggiungendoui pepe, et cannella, et zafferano, et come saranno cotti, seruanosi caldi con il lor brodo sopra. Et non essendo vigilia ponganosi a cuocere con essi croste di cascio Parmeggiano, et in loco dell’oglio, ponganuisi butiro. Si può anche far minestra delle lor barbe con cipolle tagliate minute.

Take fennel in its season (…) I mean the white shoots that grow at the base of wild fennel; remove the outer layer and select the most tender parts. Wash them and form bundles as one would with broccoli, and place them in a pot with oil, water, and salt. Cook them thoroughly, and to thicken the broth, add breadcrumbs that have been soaked in broth and passed through a sieve. Season with pepper, cinnamon, and saffron. When cooked, serve them hot with their broth. If it is not a fasting day, cook them with crusts of Parmesan cheese and substitute butter for the oil. Alternatively, you can prepare a soup using the fennel fronds with finely chopped onions.

The use of spices—pepper, cinnamon, and saffron—in this recipe harks back to medieval culinary traditions. 

During the Middle Ages, spices were treasured commodities, prized for enhancing food flavor and as markers of social status. Pepper, in particular, was so valuable that it was often referred to as "black gold."

However, by the 16th century, the increasing availability of spices due to expanded trade routes made them more accessible, though they retained their association with wealth and refinement.

For Renaissance diners, spices were not merely culinary tools but symbols of luxury and cosmopolitanism, connecting the dining table to the distant corners of the known world. In Michelangelo's time, dishes like a simple fennel soup infused with exotic spices' warm, robust notes would have been a sensory delight and a quiet assertion of one's place in the social hierarchy.

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… and Wine

In Renaissance Italy, wine was a staple at every meal, valued for its taste and practical uses. Mixed with water, it disinfected unsafe drinking water—a practice inherited from ancient Rome.

Beyond its practical purposes, wine also played a key role in daily diet, especially for the lower classes. It was a source of essential calories and a complement to simple meals. The light, often diluted wines consumed by the lower classes differed significantly from the full-bodied vintages favored by the wealthy.

The wine was sometimes sweetened with honey or molasses or infused with herbs like fennel seeds to enhance flavor.

Wine also held cultural and symbolic significance, reflecting personal taste and social status. Michelangelo's shopping list shows his preference for vin tondo (full-bodied wine), reflecting a taste for quality wine. For the affluent, wine symbolized status, with tables featuring sweeter, aromatic wines or imported varieties like Malvasia prized for their exotic flavors.

Beyond its dietary role, wine held religious significance. In Christian liturgy, it was central to the Eucharist, symbolizing Christ's blood, which elevated its importance in society.

During the Renaissance, wine emerged as an object of study and appreciation, reflecting its growing cultural importance. This interest is illustrated by figures like Sante Lancerio, Pope Paul III's sommelier. In his writings, Lancerio meticulously documented the pope's preferred vintages, describing their characteristics and origins.

Later, in 1595, physician and wine historian Andrea Bacci explored wine's cultural and medicinal qualities in his De Naturali Vinorum Historia.

However, not all views on wine were favorable. Our old friend Giovanni Della Casa, in his Galateo (1558), cautioned against excessive drinking:

Né crederò io mai che la temperanza si debba apprendere da sì fatto maestro quale è il vino e l’ebrezza.
Nor will I ever believe that temperance can be learned from such a teacher as wine and drunkenness.

While not condemning wine, Della Casa emphasized moderation as essential for maintaining the dignity and composure required of the Renaissance man in social settings.

Although Michelangelo's shopping list appears modest at first glance, it offers an unexpected view into the culture and customs of Renaissance Italy.

Tortelli, fennel soup, and wine—seemingly ordinary foods—carry meanings that transcend their role as food. They reflect the ingenuity of Renaissance kitchens, wine's social and spiritual role, and the evolving tastes that linked medieval traditions to modern culinary practices.

This simple document reminds us that even the most humble records can reveal profound insights into daily life, connecting the ordinary details of one man's table to the broader currents of history, culture, and identity.

Bibliography

Morgante: Depictions of a Renaissance Jester Turned Duke

La cucina rinascimentale tra banchetti e nuovi ingredienti

Bartolomeo Scappi, Opera Di M. Bartolomeo Scappi, Cvoco Secreto Di Papa Pio Qvinto, divisa in sei libri. (1570)

Gillian Riley, The Oxford Companion to Italian Food (2007).

Gillian Riley, Renaissance Recipes (1993)

Massimo Montanari, Il cibo come cultura (2004)

Missed the first episode of this article?

If you're interested in Renaissance Italy, you may enjoy these other posts on the topic.

The date, March 18, 1518, places this document in the heart of the Lenten season, a time of particular liturgical significance for a devout Catholic like Michelangelo. This period, marked by fasting and abstinence, influenced his dietary habits, as reflected in this list.

Beyond revealing his dietary habits, this list provides insights into his private life and the culinary customs of his era.

What might seem like a modest grocery list to contemporary eyes, in the context of the 16th century, represents the food choices of a well-off artist. At 43 years old, Michelangelo already enjoyed a solid professional reputation and financial stability, allowing him to maintain a nutritious, high-quality diet.

This document intertwines with one of the artist’s most prestigious commissions: the façade of the Basilica of San Lorenzo in Florence, entrusted to him by Pope Leo X, son of Lorenzo il Magnifico. While Michelangelo was selecting marble for this ambitious project, he still found time to handle everyday matters, like drafting a humble shopping list.

Although the façade project was never completed—hindered by technical and financial difficulties that arose even during the material procurement phase—this shopping list still survives. It offers us an authentic snapshot of Michelangelo’s daily life, a man capable of blending his grand artistic visions with the practical necessities of everyday existence.

Here is the complete list:

Pani dua (two bread rolls)

Un bocal di vino (a jug of wine)

Una aringa (a herring)

Tortegli (tortelli)

---

Una salada (a salad)

Quatro pani (four bread rolls)

Un bochal di tondo (a jug of full-bodied wine)

Un quartuccio di bruscho (a quarter of dry wine)

Un piattello di spinaci (a dish of spinach)

Quatro alice (four anchovies)

Tortelli (tortelli)

---

Sei pani (six bread rolls)

Due minestre di finochio (two fennel soups)

Una aringa (a herring)

Un bochal di tondo (a jug of full-bodied wine)

A Renaissance Table

The list, divided into three sections that likely correspond to different days, not only reflects a balanced and varied diet—suitable for Lent and consistent with the master’s frugal habits—but also a practical approach to planning.

Known for his attention to detail, Michelangelo selected foods with an eye for preservation—such as salted or dried herring—and freshness, such as spinach. This careful selection was essential to guaranteeing regular, adequate meals in an era without modern refrigeration.

This document also highlights aspects of Renaissance cuisine, which blended regional flavors and external influences. The tortelli, a type of stuffed pasta, and fennel soup, a dish typical of the Apuan region, point to the culinary traditions of the area where Michelangelo likely resided during this period.

The anchovies, likely fished in the waters of Versilia, represent a fresh local product, while herring, known as the “fish of the city,” arrived dried, salted, or smoked from northern Europe. Bartolomeo Scappi, in his treatise on Renaissance cuisine, notes that these “are brought from Flanders and France through the Rhine River to Italy, preserved in brine in barrels.”

One notable element in this list—which challenged my belief based on previous readings—is the constant presence of wine at Michelangelo’s table. While maintaining otherwise modest habits, the master was not a teetotaler and included this key element of the period’s diet in every meal.

This list combines simplicity and sophistication, making it an ideal starting point for exploring the foods and culinary habits of the Renaissance. 

In my next article, I will focus on some items on Michelangelo's list and discuss the techniques and influences that made them integral to 16th-century diets.

Stay with me as I take a closer look at the Renaissance table!

You may also enjoy some suggestions for further exploration:

Michelangelo's Grocery List, And The Reason He Sketched It

Also, if you’re fascinated by Renaissance culture, you may be interested in my articles exploring Monsignor della Casa’s Galateo, a cornerstone of etiquette and refined manners in the 16th century, and Isabella d’Este’s legacy.

The Mocha Mousse shade evokes the tones found in some of Leonardo da Vinci's drawings, particularly the “Portrait of Isabella d'Este”, where similar tones emerge in its careful use of charcoal, sanguine, and yellow pastel.

The portrait, dated around 1500, is a preparatory study for an oil painting that Leonardo never completed (or so it was thought). It is now preserved at the Louvre Museum in Paris.

Leonardo created this work during a brief stay in Mantua in late 1499, following his departure from Milan, which the French conquest under Louis XII had destabilized. In Mantua, he met Isabella d'Este, the influential marchioness renowned for her patronage of the arts and her wide-ranging cultural interests, who commissioned him to create her portrait.

Isabella d'Este was a key figure of the Italian Renaissance, not only for her political influence but also for her intellectual and artistic connections. Leonardo's portrait of her is understated yet conveys her standing and personality.

This drawing has also been cited as a possible precursor to Leonardo's Mona Lisa (1502–1506). The similarities between the Portrait of Isabella d'Este and the Mona Lisa are evident, particularly in the positioning of the hands.

Isabella D'Este: The Tenth Muse of Mantua

Isabella d'Este (1474–1539), Marchioness of Mantua, was one of the most influential figures of the Italian Renaissance. Renowned for her discerning patronage of the arts, Isabella embodied the era's ideals, combining cultural sophistication with strategic governance. Born into the Este family in Ferrara, she was educated in Latin, Greek, music, dance, and philosophy.

As Marchioness, Isabella cultivated one of Italy's most refined courts. She materialized her artistic interests in two physical spaces: the studiolo and the grotta. These were private spaces, authentic "rooms for her own," that symbolized her autonomy in cultural and intellectual matters.

The studiolo featured commissioned works by Andrea Mantegna, such as "Parnassus" and "The Triumph of the Virtues," which blended classical mythology with Renaissance ideals. Following Mantegna's death in 1506, she expanded her collection with mythological works by Perugino, Titian, and Correggio.

Adjacent to the studiolo, the grotta housed an array of antiquities, including coins, gems, and medals, acquired with the advice of experts.

Her pursuit of artistic excellence is notably exemplified in her interactions with Leonardo da Vinci regarding the commission of her portrait. This episode reveals both Leonardo's notorious reluctance to complete commissions and Isabella's persistence. Indeed, she maintained contact with him over several years, attempting to acquire works, demonstrating her determination and understanding of the importance of having works by the most celebrated artists of her time.

Isabella was a demanding and meticulous patron, offering her artists precise instructions to ensure her vision was realized. A famous example is her commission to Giovanni Bellini, who ultimately declined also due to her stringent requirements. This episode illustrates the delicate balance between patron expectations and artistic autonomy, a dynamic central to Renaissance art.

Her influence extended far beyond the visual arts. Isabella actively participated in intellectual circles, corresponding with humanists like Pietro Bembo. She was also immortalized in Ludovico Ariosto's “Orlando Furioso”, which celebrated her wisdom and influence.

From your noble lineage will arise she,
a friend of great deeds and noble studies,
whom I cannot decide whether to call
more graceful and fair, or wiser and more chaste,
generous and magnanimous Isabella.
With her radiant light, both day and night,
she will illuminate the land by the Menzo,
to which Ocno's mother gave its name.

Additionally, her court became a hub of musical innovation, hosting composers such as Bartolomeo Tromboncino and Marchetto Cara, who developed the frottola, a precursor to the madrigal.

Politically, Isabella played a significant role in Mantua's governance. During her husband Francesco Gonzaga's military campaigns, she effectively managed the state, balancing diplomacy and administration. Following Francesco's death in 1519, Isabella served as regent for her son Federico II until 1521, navigating Mantua through a critical period of political uncertainty.

Isabella's approach to collecting and displaying art established enduring models for future generations. Her systematic collecting practices, where works were chosen not merely for their individual merit but for their contribution to a broader artistic and intellectual program, significantly advanced art patronage.

The studiolo and grotta became influential prototypes for later collectors, inspiring the development of the cabinet of curiosities (Wunderkammer) in subsequent centuries.

Moreover, her innovative practice of displaying ancient and contemporary works in dialogue with each other and her active role in shaping artistic creation through detailed iconographic programs established new standards that influenced collecting practices well beyond the Renaissance period.

The works and artifacts she collected, along with her extensive correspondence, which includes thousands of letters that are available today, offer a unique perspective on her life. They reveal how she used cultural patronage and political strategy to assert her independence and influence.

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The Strange Case of the Portrait in Lugano
The story of Isabella’s portrait begins with a preparatory sketch Leonardo da Vinci created in 1499/1500 during his stay in Mantua. Later, he took the sketch with him to France. Despite Isabella's persistent requests, Leonardo never completed the commissioned portrait or returned the preparatory sketch to her.

For over 500 years, this seemed to be the episode's conclusion.

However, in 2013, an unexpected twist occurred: a supposed 'colored' portrait of Isabella d'Este, allegedly based on Leonardo's preparatory sketch, surfaced in a private vault in Switzerland.

The painting's attribution to Leonardo da Vinci remains unresolved. The legal proceedings that followed its discovery reveal a complex intersection of art history, law, and international cultural heritage protection.

The following account attempts to piece together the story, drawing on newspaper articles published between 2013 and 2019.

In 2013, Italian authorities began investigating a painting discovered in a Swiss vault in Lugano. The work, a 61x45.5 cm oil on canvas depicting Isabella d'Este, was attributed to Leonardo da Vinci. A lawyer representing an Italian family was offering the painting for sale at €95 million. 

The discovery initiated parallel proceedings: legal investigations and scholarly debates about its authenticity.

The painting's existence became public in October 2013. Several experts, including Leonardo scholar Carlo Pedretti, supported its attribution to Leonardo, citing radiocarbon dating results and stylistic analysis.

However, other scholars expressed significant doubts, noting that the Louvre's catalog explicitly states Leonardo never executed the painting. Critics also highlighted stylistic inconsistencies and the absence of historical documentation linking Leonardo to a finished portrait.

The legal proceedings intensified in 2014 when a new attempt to sell the painting emerged, this time for €120 million. Italian authorities filed a second request for international legal assistance, leading to a Swiss police raid on a trust company vault in Lugano in February 2015. The Italian prosecutors' investigation suggested connections to an international art trafficking network.

The debate over authenticity continued to develop. Supporters of Leonardo's attribution cited the quality of execution and compositional elements, while skeptics noted the absence of his characteristic sfumato technique and departures from his documented working methods.

The legal case progressed through several stages. In 2017, an Italian court found the painting's owner guilty of illegal exportation, imposing a 14-month prison sentence.

The owner contested this verdict, claiming family ownership spanning generations and the painting's presence in Switzerland predating current exportation laws by over a century. The Federal Criminal Court of Switzerland supported the owner's appeal against repatriation to Italy while maintaining the artwork's sequestration pending Italian court decisions.

In 2018, the Swiss Federal Criminal Court ordered the painting's return to Italy, citing its significance as cultural heritage.

This ruling was overturned in 2019 by the Swiss Supreme Court, which determined that Swiss law prohibits the illegal exportation of cultural assets only when the item appears in an official Italian inventory of protected cultural goods. The "Portrait of Isabella d'Este" had no such listing. Consequently, the court ordered the painting's release from sequestration and its return to the owner, concluding the legal proceedings.

Today, the painting remains in Switzerland, and its legal status is resolved, but its artistic identity is still contested. The question remains whether this work represents a lost Leonardo masterpiece, a contemporary follower's interpretation, or a later creation.

Mona Lisa's Smile

From 2025's Mocha Mousse, we have traveled through a story spanning more than five centuries, connecting Leonardo's genius, the ambition of one of the Renaissance's most significant patrons, and a modern-day international art mystery.

It is emblematic of how a single portrait can tell us so much about the relationship between artists and patrons, the complexities of the art market, and the challenges of protecting cultural heritage.

Above all, it demonstrates how every work of art carries with it not only its history but also its mysteries.

Perhaps it's no coincidence that Leonardo, who began with Isabella's portrait and went on to create the Mona Lisa, gifted the world two enigmatic smiles - timeless riddles from the Renaissance that still defy explanation.

Suggestions for Further Reading:

About Isabella d’Este

Renaissance woman: Isabella d’Este

If you are into historical fiction, you may appreciate: Maria Bellonci, Private Renaissance (1985)

Also, if you are interested in the Italian Renaissance, you may enjoy my previous posts:

In English: dawn, sunrise.

G. Pellizza da Volpedo, Rising sun (1904)

In the refined tradition of medieval Occitan poetry, "alba" transcends its literal meaning to become a poetic genre suspended between the sacred and the profane.

It sings of the anguish of separation between two clandestine lovers who must part at sunrise after a night of passion to avoid discovery.

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Thus, the Provençal troubadour Giraut De Borneil, active in the second half of the 12th century, sang about the arrival of dawn.

Bel companho, si dormetz o velhatz, / No dormatz plus, suau vos ressidatz! / Qu'en orien vei l'estela creguda / C'amena.l jorn, qu'eu l'ai be conoguda, / Et ades sera l'alba

Bel companho, en chantan vos apel! / No dormatz plus, qu'eu auch chantar l'auzel / Que vai queren lo jorn per lo boschatge / Et ai paor que.l gilos vos assatge / Et ades sera l'alba

Fair companion, do you sleep or wake? / Whatever you do, rise to your feet, / for in the east I see the star has risen, / the one that brings the day: / I have recognized it well, / and soon it will be dawn.

Fair companion, I call to you singing; / sleep no more, for I hear the bird singing, / the one that seeks the day in the woods, / and I fear the jealous one may attack you, / and soon it will be dawn.

Image from “Codex Manesse”

Yet perhaps the most celebrated lovers' dawn parting is the one immortalized by Shakespeare in his late 16th-century tragedy "Romeo and Juliet."

The exchange between the two protagonists about the nature of the bird's song - nightingale or lark - becomes a poetic negotiation with time itself, a desperate attempt to hold back the protective night.

JULIET

Wilt thou be gone? It is not yet near day. / It was the nightingale, and not the lark, / That pierced the fearful hollow of thine ear. / Nightly she sings on yond pomegranate tree. / Believe me, love, it was the nightingale.

ROMEO

It was the lark, the herald of the morn, / No nightingale. Look, love, what envious streaks / Do lace the severing clouds in yonder east. / Night’s candles are burnt out, and jocund day / Stands tiptoe on the misty mountain tops. / I must be gone and live, or stay and die.

F. Hayez, The Last Kiss Given to Juliet by Romeo (1823)

Through the centuries, dawn thus continues to represent that liminal moment where hope and sorrow intertwine, rebirth and separation merge, in an ambivalence that has made it one of the most evocative motifs in Western literary tradition.

There’s another famous “alba” that must be mentioned: the triumphant cry of victory in Puccini’s Turandot. Here is Pavarotti’s unforgettable rendition of Nessun dorma with its iconic line, ‘all’alba vincerò’ (at dawn, I will win)… enjoy!

This word derives from the Latin prae (“in front of”) and saeps (“enclosure”), meaning manger or animal enclosure, evoking the humility and simplicity of the place where, according to Christian tradition, Jesus was born.

In English: nativity (scene).

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In Italy, the tradition of setting up the nativity scene during the Christmas season is ancient and is linked to the sacred plays performed in churches, particularly the living nativity scene recreated in 1223 by Saint Francis in Greccio, in the province of Rieti.

Here is how Saint Francis’ nativity scene is described in the Legenda Maior, the biography of St. Francis written by Bonaventura da Bagnoregio in the second half of the 13th century (here translated into English from the original Latin):

It happened, however, in the third year before his death, that he decided to commemorate the nativity of the child Jesus at the castle of Greccio, to stir up devotion with as much solemnity as he could.

To ensure that this could not be considered a novelty, he sought and obtained permission from the Supreme Pontiff to prepare a manger, bring in hay, and have an ox and a donkey led to the place.

The brothers were summoned, the people gathered, the forest echoed with voices, and that venerable night was made resplendent and solemn with abundant lights, clear songs of praise, and harmonious hymns.

The man of God stood before the manger, filled with piety, drenched in tears, and overflowing with joy.

The solemn celebration of Mass was held over the manger, with the Levite of Christ, Francis, chanting the holy Gospel.

Then he preached to the people standing around about the birth of the poor King, whom, in the tenderness of his love, he would call the child of Bethlehem whenever he mentioned Him.

The Greccio nativity scene of St. Francis frescoed by Giotto in the Basilica of San Francesco D’Assisi in Assisi (1297-1300).

Today, the tradition of nativity scenes remains alive and well: just think of the splendid Neapolitan art of presepi, with their intricate settings and rich repertoire of iconic characters, such as Benino, the sleeping shepherd.

Sailko, Presepe napoletano del museo di arte sacra di San Paolo 16, CC BY 3.0

Here’s what J.W. Goethe recounted in 1817 about Neapolitan presepi:

(…) I have forgotten to tell you about another characteristic of the Neapolitans, their love of crèches, or presepe, which, at Christmas, can be seen in all their churches. These consist of groups of large, sumptuous figures representing the adoration of the shepherds, the angels and the three Magi. In this gay Naples the representation has climbed up on to the flat roof tops. A light framework, like a hut, is decorated with trees and evergreen shrubs. In it, the Mother of God, the Infant and all the others stand or float, dressed up most gorgeously in a wardrobe on which the family spends a large sum. The background – Vesuvius and all the surrounding countryside – gives the whole thing an incomparable majesty.

In depicting this sacred scene, it is possible that living figures were sometimes substituted for the dolls, and that in time this gave rise to one of the great diversions of noble and wealthy families, who pass many evenings in their palaces representing profane scenes from history or poetry.

(Italian Journey: 1786-1788 as translated by W.H. Auden and E. Mayer)

If you want to learn more about the tradition of presepi, here are two very interesting links for you to explore:

History | December 20, 2022 What Nativity Scenes Tell Us About the Evolution of Christianity

Wishing you all a very Merry Christmas!

Every week, I publish a micro-article in the Notes section of Historia Minuta, focusing on an Italian word. I’ve named this series Belle Parole, a celebration of the beauty and depth of the Italian language.

In this article, I’ve gathered the first three words I explored: meraviglia (wonder), stupore (awe), and incanto (enchantment). These words are intricately connected, each evoking the realm of amazement and admiration—a world where language captures the profound emotions sparked by beauty, mystery, and creativity.

Meraviglia

From Latin mirabilia (wonderful things).

In English: wonder.

The word meraviglia evokes admiration and awe, bringing to mind the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World—monuments celebrated for their grandeur and ingenuity. Of these, only the Great Pyramid of Giza, the oldest (2584–2561 BCE), has survived to this day.

Seven Wonders of the Ancient World

In Italian literature, meraviglia often conveys a sense of amazement in front of something extraordinary. Alessandro Manzoni uses this word to describe the awe that the protagonist of I Promessi Sposi (1842) feels when seeing the Duomo of Milan:

Renzo, salito per un di que’ valichi sul terreno più elevato, vide quella gran macchina del duomo sola sul piano, come se, non di mezzo a una città, ma sorgesse in un deserto; e si fermò su due piedi, dimenticando tutti i suoi guai, a contemplare anche da lontano quell’ottava maraviglia, di cui aveva tanto sentito parlare fin da bambino.

Renzo, having climbed one of those passes to the highest ground, saw that great structure of the Duomo standing alone on the plain, as if it rose, not in the midst of a city, but out of a desert; and he stopped dead in his tracks, forgetting all his troubles, to contemplate, even from afar, that eighth wonder he had heard so much about since childhood.

(I Promessi Sposi, Ch. XXXIII)

“Milano. La Cattedrale”, photo by Giacomo Brogi (1870s)

Stupore

From Latin stupor (astonishment, wonder).

In English: astonishment.

The word stupore describes a state of emotional immobility in front of something unexpected, leaving one fascinated, overwhelmed, or in awe. The Latin root stupere means "to be astounded" or "to be struck," capturing the dual nature of stupore: a mix of enchantment and disorientation.

In the introduction to the first day of the Decameron, Boccaccio uses this word to describe the shock caused by the plague that struck Florence in 1348:

E oltre a questo ne seguio la morte di molti che per avventura, se stati fossero atati, campati sarieno; di che, tra per lo difetto degli oportuni servigi, li quali gl'infermi aver non poteano, e per la forza della pistolenza, era tanta nella città la moltitudine di quegli che di dì e di notte morieno, che uno stupore era a udir dire, non che a riguardarlo. Per che, quasi di necessità, cose contrarie a' primi costumi de' cittadini nacquero tra coloro li quali rimanean vivi.

And furthermore, many died who, perhaps, if they had been cared for, might have survived; for, on the one hand, due to the lack of proper services, which the sick could not obtain, and on the other, due to the power of the pestilence, so great was the multitude of those who died day and night in the city that it was astonishing to hear of it, let alone to see it. As a result, almost inevitably, behaviors contrary to the former customs of the citizens arose among those who remained alive.

Stupor Mundi (Wonder of the World) was the title given to the controversial emperor Frederick II of Hohenstaufen (1194-1250), one of the most fascinating figures of the European Middle Ages.

Ruler of the Holy Roman Empire and the Kingdom of Sicily, he was a cultural innovator, a patron of the arts and sciences, and a man of extraordinary intellectual curiosity. Admired by some for his modernity and tolerance, and hated by others for his conflicts with the papacy and his unorthodox religious views, Frederick is remembered as much for his genius as for the accusations of cruelty, including extreme scientific experiments.

Emperor Frankenstein: The Truth Behind Frederick II of Sicily’s Sadistic Science Experiments

Incanto

This word encapsulates a universe of supernatural suggestions. It derives from the Latin verb incantare, meaning “to sing over something” or “to subject something to a magical chant.” The word incantesimo shares the same origin and refers to a magical act.

In English, it can be translated as enchantment or charm.

When I think of this word, I can’t help but recall the image of the beguiling song of the sirens in the Odyssey. That sound, described as irresistibly sweet and seductive, could capture the soul of anyone who heard it, dragging them into an abyss as wonderful as it was fatal.

Incanto is also the evocative power of enchanted forests in fairy tales, mysterious and suspended worlds where anything can happen. Here, wizards and witches weave their spells, powerful rhymes that transform words into magic.

The Romantic poet Ugo Foscolo (1778–1827) describes incanto as a creative force in his poem Le Grazie (1812). Here, he captures the moment when incanto, represented by the harmony spread by the Graces, flows into the human heart, transforming every thought and perception into a source of wonder and inspiration.

Udiro intente

le Grazie; e in cor quell'armonia fatale

albergàro, e correan su per la terra

a spirarla a' mortali. E da quel giorno

dolce ei sentian per l'anima un incanto,

lucido in mente ogni pensiero, e quanto

udian essi o vedean vago e diverso

dilettava i lor occhi, e ad imitarlo

prendean industri e divenia più bello.

They heard attentively,

the Graces; and in their hearts that fateful harmony

dwelt, and they roamed across the earth

to breathe it into mortals. And from that day

a sweet enchantment filled their souls,

every thought grew lucid in their minds, and all

they heard or saw, lovely and diverse,

delighted their eyes, and striving to imitate it,

they labored, and it became more beautiful.

"Ulisse e le Sirene", 16th century fresco by Annibale Carracci (Palazzo Farnese, Rome).

These five additional rules invite us to reflect on the profound changes in Western mentality and customs over the centuries—changes that now make these guidelines seem so unusual and even a bit bizarre.

Singin’ In The Rain

A man should refrain from singing, especially alone, if his voice is discordant and unrefined; yet few take heed of this, and indeed, it seems that those least suited to it by nature are the ones who do it most often.

One can only wonder what Monsignor Della Casa would think of the talent shows filling our screens today. Singing in the shower is no longer enough—now that anyone with a “discordant and unrefined” voice has the chance to perform proudly before millions of viewers.

A historical figure who would have eagerly taken the stage at the Sanremo Music Festival was the Roman Emperor Nero. Renowned for his unshakable belief in his artistic genius, Nero’s flair for dramatic self-expression would have undoubtedly clashed with Monsignor Della Casa’s disdain for 'discordant and unrefined' voices.

Suetonius recounts that, despite possessing a weak and husky voice, Nero was so convinced of his talent that he made his singing debut in Naples—and even when an earthquake shook the theater, he refused to halt his performance.

Peter Ustinov as Nero from the 1951 movie Quo Vadis, directed by Mervyn LeRoy.

Wine tasting

It is an improper custom for someone to put their nose over the glass of wine that another person is to drink, or over the food that another is to eat, in order to smell it; indeed, I would prefer that they not even sniff what they themselves are to drink or eat, as things might fall from the nose that are unpleasant, even if they do not fall at that very moment. Nor would I advise offering another person a glass of wine you have already sipped from, unless they are more than a close acquaintance; and much less should you offer a pear or other fruit that you have already bitten into. Do not think these matters are trivial, for even light blows, when numerous, are known to kill.

No sniffing the glass or 'courtesy sips' to assess the wine’s quality: for Monsignor Della Casa, any attempt to mimic the refined gestures of modern sommeliers would be, at best, improper.

Interestingly, a contemporary of Della Casa, Sante Lancerio—bottle-bearer to Pope Paul III (pontifex from 1534 to 1549)—is often regarded as the first sommelier in history. Tasked with selecting wines for the Pope’s table and accompanying him on his travels, Lancerio left behind what is considered the first enological treatise. In this work, he meticulously analyzed the qualities of around 50 wines and the occasions best suited for their enjoyment.

One can only imagine how many wines Sante Lancerio might have sniffed - with the Pope’s blessing, of course!

Bacchus, oil painting by Caravaggio (1596-1597).

The Interpretation Of Dreams

Those who continually insist on recounting their dreams, with such affection and wonder, do a disservice, as it is exhausting to listen to them. Especially as these people are often of a sort that listening to their greatest accomplishments, even those achieved while awake, would be a wasted effort! One should therefore not bore others with such trivial matters as dreams, especially when they are as foolish as dreams generally are.

And who knows what Della Casa would have thought of the modern trend of lying on a couch to recount dreams to a stranger—and paying for the privilege! Freud transformed what Della Casa considered a bothersome whim into a science of the unconscious, capable of revealing hidden truths and past traumas.

The only exception Della Casa makes to his rule is for the dreams of wise men (“for the good and the learned, even while they sleep, are better and wiser than the wicked and the fools”), those dreams that ‘resemble more the thoughts of a well-awakened mind’ and reveal precious moral lessons.

All others, including us ‘simple folks,’ would do better to remain silent and keep their past traumas to themselves.

Freud’s sofa - ROBERT HUFFSTUTTER, FREUD'S SOFA, CC BY 2.0

Project Runway

A nobleman should not run along the street or rush too much, as such behavior is fitting for a groom, not a gentleman. Besides, one becomes breathless, sweaty, and panting—all unbecoming traits for a man of dignity. However, one should not walk so slowly or with such affectation as a lady or a bride, nor sway too much while walking. The hands should not dangle loosely, nor should the arms be flung about as if sowing seeds in a field, nor should one fix his gaze on others as though he were marveling at them.

Some people raise their feet so high as they walk that they look like startled horses, pulling their legs out of a narrow space; others stomp so loudly that they make nearly as much noise as a cart. Some fling their feet outward, some swing their legs, some stoop at each step to pull up their stockings, and others shake their hips and strut like peacocks—actions that are not extremely offensive, but still lack elegance.

In the author’s view, a gentleman should glide gracefully through the halls of a royal court—not dash through modern city streets like a sweaty marathon runner. Just imagine his reaction to today’s urban chaos: he would have been horrified by people zigzagging through crowds with the finesse of startled horses or flailing their arms as though sowing seeds in a field. True elegance isn’t just about reaching your destination; it’s about arriving with composed dignity.

If the Renaissance ideal of dignified composure feels out of place in modern life, some historical figures have elevated dramatic entrances into an art form. Gabriele D’Annunzio, renowned for his flamboyant, decadent lifestyle where art and life intertwined seamlessly, mastered the art of grand entrance. On September 12, 1919, in what he himself proclaimed the “Sacra Entrata,” he led a triumphant march into the city of Fiume. This bold act, later known as the “Impresa di Fiume,” saw rebellious units of the Italian Royal Army, under D’Annunzio’s command, occupy the contested city—a flashpoint between the Kingdom of Italy and the Kingdom of Serbs, Croats, and Slovenes.

Lucy Hughes-Hallett vividly describes this episode in her biography The Pike - Gabriele D’Annunzio: Poet, Seducer, and Preacher of War (2013):

And then, at last, came the advent of ‘the necessary hero’; of ‘He who must come’. Crowds who had poured out of the city to welcome the marchers, began to flood back into it, singing hymns and patriotic songs, with the armoured cars of the Arditi following behind. D’Annunzio deferred his own arrival until the film crew had come up: this was a show he was staging for a world audience.

He rode into town standing up in an armoured car, wearing the uniform he had abjured earlier in the year, his medals flashing. Lorries full of Arditi followed, all on their feet and yelling ‘Fiume or Death!’ They were welcomed by Fiuman-Italians wild with patriotic ardour and lack of sleep. Women and children were waving laurel branches. D’Annunzio followers describe ‘ovations without end’ and ‘thousands hailing us as saviours’.

 (…) D’Annunzio, according to one of his aides, ‘almost disappeared beneath a rain of flowers and laurels: his motor car became a living pyramid: soldiers, citizens clambered onto it from all sides, yelling, weeping, crushing around the condottiero, who was kissed, on his face and his hands, by a thousand mouths’.

Yet, D’Annunzio’s reign over Fiume was short-lived; just over a year later, in December 1920, he and his followers were unceremoniously ousted by the Italian government.

A Christmas Carol

Some people have the habit of twisting their mouths or eyes from time to time, or puffing up their cheeks and blowing, or making similar awkward faces; these people should stop such behavior altogether, for the goddess Pallas — as I was once told by some scholars — once delighted in playing the bagpipes and was a master at it. However, it happened that one day, while she was playing by a fountain, she caught her reflection in the water and, seeing the strange faces she had to make while playing, felt ashamed and threw the bagpipes away. And indeed, she did well, for it is not an instrument suited for women; in fact, it is equally unbecoming for men, except for those of low condition who play it for pay and as their trade.

Monsignor Della Casa sternly warns both women and gentlemen against indulging in a decidedly inelegant pastime: playing the bagpipes. Wind instruments, it seems, are banished from polite society—though perhaps he might have made an exception for the humble zampognaro in the Neapolitan nativity scene, given his “low condition.”

The bagpipes are an ancient wind instrument that evolved into various forms across medieval Western Europe. In central and southern Italy, the zampogna became a cherished symbol of pastoral tradition. Often played by shepherds to while away the long hours of tending their flocks, it was also a highlight of religious and traditional festivities. During Christmas, zampognari would descend from the mountains to perform in village squares, filling the air with melodies celebrating the Nativity.

Remarkably, one man of noble birth with no qualms about playing the ancestor of the zampogna was Emperor Nero (yes, him again!). The Roman emperor is said to have mastered the utriculus, a precursor to the modern bagpipe. Suetonius recounts:

Towards the end of his life, in fact, he had publicly vowed that if he retained his power, he would at the games in celebration of his victory give a performance on the water-organ, the flute, and the bagpipes, and that on the last day he would appear as an actor and dance 'Vergil's Turnus.'

(from The Lives of the Twelve Caesars, C. Suetonius Tranquillus, Loeb Classical Library, 1914)

It seems clear that Nero’s musical obsessions, while legendary, would have made Monsignor Della Casa raise more than an eyebrow—and perhaps suggest that the emperor take some lessons in good manners.

Detail from the 1539 "Dance of Death" fresco in the Church of San Vigilio (Pinzolo, Italy)

In conclusion, the Galateo invites us to reflect on how distant certain Renaissance ideals of composure and dignified restraint are from the values and habits of our modern era.
For Monsignor Della Casa, elegance lay in balance: mastering gestures, voice, and emotions—even at the expense of one’s natural tendencies—was essential to preserving dignity and decorum.

This vision contrasts sharply with today’s supposed celebration of inner authenticity, which champions “being true to oneself,” though the reality we are often shown is shaped by carefully crafted narratives that align more with social expectations than genuine spontaneity.

Ultimately, it always comes down to selling a certain image of oneself, reflecting the values of its time; after all, this is exactly what the “Vate” Gabriele D’Annunzio excelled at—an unrivaled master of “staging” himself in line with the aesthetic trends of his era.

Perhaps, in the end, the only truly timeless rule of style is knowing when to stop performing and simply be yourself.

Published at the height of the Renaissance, this treatise aimed to teach proper social behavior based on the humanistic ideals of balance and moderation—core Renaissance values that promoted harmony in social relationships and the improvement of the individual through education and appropriate conduct.

“Portrait of Monsignor Della Casa” (c. 1541–1544) by Pontormo

The Galateo fits into what Norbert Elias later defined as the "civilizing process," offering behavioral norms designed to regulate daily interactions and discipline emotions, the body, and speech. These norms contributed to shaping a self-controlled individual aligned with the social expectations of the time. The rules of the Galateo not only reflected a desire to maintain social harmony but also encouraged the internalization of civil behavior, which, according to Elias' model, would later form the foundation of human relationships in modernity.

Beyond these theoretical aspects—and the infamous "Conciossiacosaché" opening (which alone might deter many from reading further)—I instead discovered an immensely enjoyable text filled with humor and practical lessons that, if adapted to today’s world, could easily be taught in families or schools.

Perhaps they should be!

At first, the constant encouragement to moderate one’s public behavior and mask negative emotions led me to believe that many of Galateo's rules were outdated. However, upon further reflection, I realized that it’s not just about pretending to be something we’re not for personal gain—it’s about taking responsibility for ourselves and others. In social situations, what we say and do has an impact and consequences, influencing how we are perceived and how others choose to behave.

Respect and consideration for others do not conflict with freedom of expression but should, in fact, be its foundation.

To help us all become a little more ‘Renaissance people,’ I’ve distilled ten key lessons. These are pieces of advice that we may already follow unconsciously, but I believe they deserve renewed attention.

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1)     Conviviality

I say that it is not proper for one to become angry at the table, no matter what happens; and if one does become angry, he should not show it, nor should he give any sign of his displeasure, (…), especially if you have guests dining with you, for you have invited them for joy, and now you sadden them.

Sitting at the table, whether with friends or, most importantly, with family, should be a moment of sharing and joy. Giving in to anger or a bad mood risks ruining the atmosphere, the pleasure of being together, and enjoying a good meal. To quote Brillat-Savarin (1825): " To invite someone is to take responsibility for their happiness for the entire time they are under our roof."

2)       Conversation Topics

One should not choose a subject that is too subtle or too refined, for it is difficult for most to understand. Care should be taken to propose a topic that does not cause anyone in the group to blush or feel offended.

Conversation is an exchange: it is crucial to consider the audience and create an inclusive atmosphere in social contexts. Della Casa reminds us of the importance of avoiding too subtle or complex topics and not embarrassing others with inappropriate discussions to encourage participation.

3)     Excessive Modesty

Now, whatever praise or blame one may deserve, it is certain that whoever rejects what everyone else desires shows that he either criticizes or despises them; and to scorn glory and honor, which are so highly esteemed by others, is to glorify and honor oneself above all others, since no one of sound mind rejects such valued things, except those who believe themselves to have an abundance of what is most dear. Therefore, we should neither boast of our possessions, nor make a mockery of them, for one reproaches others for their shortcomings, and the other mocks their virtues. Rather, each of us, as much as possible, should remain silent about ourselves, or, if the occasion compels us to speak of ourselves, the gracious habit is to speak truthfully but with humility (...).

The author offers a reflection that, at first glance, might seem counterintuitive: while it is important to avoid arrogance and presumption, it is equally necessary to beware of excessive modesty. This is because by downplaying what others admire—our successes—we may come across as feeling superior. Della Casa encourages us not to belittle ourselves but to recognize and accept our merits with humility, without flaunting or dismissing them.

4)     Gossip

One should not speak ill of others or their possessions, even though at the moment it may seem that listeners eagerly lend their ears, driven by the envy we often harbor for each other’s good fortune and honor. But in the end, everyone flees from the bull that charges, and people avoid the friendship of slanderers, reasoning that what they say about others to us, they will say about us to others.

Gossip may seem like an innocent form of conversation, but it ends up eroding trust and damaging relationships. Della Casa reminds us that slander leads to a loss of credibility and friendships, as those who speak ill of others rarely enjoy the trust of those around them.

5)     Nitpicking

He who loves to be friendly and gentle in conversation should not be quick to say, 'That is not how it was,' or 'Rather, it is as I tell you,' nor should he be eager to place bets on the matter. Instead, he should strive to be accommodating to the opinions of others, especially on trivial matters. For victory in such cases often results in loss, as winning a frivolous argument frequently costs a dear friend and makes one tiresome to others, so much so that they hesitate to engage with us, not wanting to always be at odds. Hence, they nickname us 'Master Always-Wins,' 'Sir Contradictor,' or 'Ser Everything-to-Know,' and at times even 'Doctor Subtlety’.

Insisting on always being right, especially on matters of minor importance, can compromise relationships and create a tense atmosphere. Della Casa encourages us to choose our battles wisely and to prioritize harmony in conversations, sometimes accepting the opinions of others without feeling the need to prevail.

6)     Unsolicited Advice

Offering your unsolicited advice is nothing other than claiming to be wiser than the one to whom you are giving counsel, or even reproaching them for their lack of knowledge and their ignorance. For this reason, such advice should not be given to just any acquaintance, but only to the closest of friends or to those whose governance and guidance is entrusted to us, or indeed, when great danger threatens someone, even if they are a stranger to us.

With his advice to reserve suggestions only for delicate situations or close friends, Della Casa implicitly invites us to place more importance on listening than speaking. Often, when people talk, they aren’t seeking advice but someone who will listen without judgment or an immediate response. Discretion and respect should guide us when offering advice, bearing in mind that our intentions can be misunderstood and negatively impact relationships. Even today, this advice is invaluable: giving advice should be driven by tact, empathy, and respect for others’ autonomy.

7)     Witty Remarks

And you must also know that some jests bite, while others do not; for the former, let Lauretta’s wise teaching suffice: jests should bite the listener like a sheep, not like a dog. For if they were to bite like a dog, the jest would no longer be a jest, but rudeness (...).

Della Casa warns us to choose our words carefully, ensuring that jokes are light and witty without crossing the line and hurting the listener. The art of conversation involves reading the context and using humor to add lightness and enjoyment rather than causing humiliation or discomfort.

8)     Correcting Others

And when dealing with others, you must accustom yourself to using gentle, modest, and sweet words, so that they carry no bitter taste; and it is better to say: 'I did not express myself well,' or 'You did not understand me,' or 'Let us consider if what we are saying is truly so,' rather than say: 'You are wrong!' or 'That is not true!' or 'You do not know!' For it is courteous and gracious to soften a rebuke, even when you mean to correct someone, and one ought to share in a friend's mistake, first taking a part of the blame oneself, and then correcting them: 'We took the wrong path,' or 'We did not remember to do this yesterday,' even if the forgetfulness belongs to the other and not to you.

In personal or professional relationships, the ability to correct someone with respect and empathy is essential for maintaining good relationships. Della Casa advises avoiding accusatory and aggressive tones, instead keeping the dialogue open and striving to be part of the solution.

9)     The Art of Eloquence

And if you know how to choose from your language the purest and most appropriate words, those that have the best sound and meaning, without any recollection of anything ugly, base, or low, and if you arrange them, not throwing them together carelessly, nor aligning them with too obvious an effort, and furthermore, if you distribute carefully the things you wish to say, (…) and if you do not speak too slowly, like someone who is disinterested, nor too greedily, like someone who is famished, but as a moderate man should speak, and if you pronounce the letters and syllables with a fitting sweetness, not like a teacher instructing children to read and spell, nor shall you chew or swallow them, glued and smeared together; if you remember these and other such teachings, your speech will be pleasant and willingly listened to by people, and you will maintain the rank and dignity befitting a well-bred and well-mannered gentleman.

Communicating effectively, with the right pace and appropriate language, is fundamental to being heard and respected in social and professional relationships. Eloquence is not just a technical skill but a form of relational intelligence that promotes understanding, respect, and the building of solid and lasting relationships.

10) Speaking and Silence at the Right Time

But just as excessive talking is annoying, so too does excessive silence provoke dislike, because remaining silent when others speak in turn seems like a refusal to contribute one's share. And since speaking is a way of opening your soul to those who listen, silence, on the contrary, seems like a desire to remain unknown. For this reason, just as those peoples who are accustomed to drinking heavily at their feasts tend to drive away those who do not drink, so too are those who remain mute unwelcome in joyful and friendly gatherings. Thus, the pleasing custom is to speak and remain silent each in turn when it is their time.

In this precept, Della Casa once again emphasizes balance and moderation. Just as it is wrong to dominate the conversation without leaving room for others, it is equally wrong never to speak. As mentioned, conversation is an exchange, an act of sharing: remaining silent while others actively participate can give the impression of wanting to stay distant or unwilling to share. Proper behavior consists of knowing when to speak, remaining silent, and maintaining the right balance in the conversation.

In my next article, I will explore some of the more amusing aspects of Galateo, focusing on those precepts that today may seem odd to us. However, through these curious rules of behavior, we can better understand the society of the time and how social norms have changed over the centuries.

See you soon!

Propaganda painted the enemy as a barbarian to be defeated and the war as a necessary, morally justified act. Newspapers fueled this collective fever, reporting stories of individual heroism to inspire their readers.

Here is an example from an Italian newspaper, La Stampa, dated May 31, 1915 (Italy had entered the war on May 24, 1915, alongside France, England, and Russia).

It tells the story of a primary school teacher (a woman!) who, driven by love for her country, disguised herself as a man to go to war and fight the enemy.

Miss Soldier

This handsome infantryman is Miss Luigia Ciappi, the Tuscan teacher who attempted to go to war. As previously mentioned, she is a teacher in Moncioni, a district of the municipality of Montevarchi, but her parents live in Florence, on Pindemonte Street, together with her married brother.

She was so filled with enthusiasm for our war against Austria that, writing to her sister-in-law a few days ago, she expressed her desire to fight against the Austrians. She also confided that she was putting her plan into action, intending to reach the front dressed as a soldier.

After obtaining leave, she went to Florence and was able to easily procure a military uniform by having it made by a Florentine tailor, to whom she claimed it was for a brother who had been called to serve. Dressed in the uniform, she entered the San Giorgio barracks just as the regiment was preparing to depart. Equipped like the others, she left with them.

But at the Bologna station, she was recognized and taken back to Florence. Then, Miss Ciappi returned to Montevarchi, where the local population and her colleagues gave her a warm demonstration of sympathy.

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Beyond these remarkable stories, women played a crucial role during World War I in Italy and other countries, marking a pivotal moment in social history.

They became active members of the economy and broader society for the first time. They took on roles in new sectors, such as metallurgy (which had been converted to meet wartime needs), mechanics, transportation, and administrative duties.

This shift supported the war effort and laid the foundation for significant social changes in the post-war era.

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Mimae, like Bassilla, were actresses who participated in mime performances, a highly popular form of theater in Imperial Rome. Mime was considered a lesser genre compared to tragedy and comedy, characterized by scenes from everyday life, often parodic and grotesque, with colloquial language and a certain freedom of movement and improvisation.

One of the distinctive features of mime was that the actors did not wear masks.

In traditional Roman theater, women usually did not perform, and young masked male actors played female roles; however, in mime, the female parts were performed by women who could engage in the licentious nudatio mimarum at the end of the shows. This was likely one of the reasons why this type of performance was so popular, but it also explains why actresses were often regarded on the same level as prostitutes.

Despite this, talented actresses who excelled in both acting and dancing, like Bassilla, managed to earn the respect of their audiences and colleagues and were sometimes honored with monuments such as the stele of Aquileia.