Philosophy-RAG-demo/transcriptions/HoP 336 - We Built This City - Christine de Pizan.txt

 Hi, I'm Peter Adamson and you're listening to the History of Philosophy podcast, brought to you with the support of the Philosophy department at King's College London and the LMU in Munich, online at historyofphilosophy.net. Today's episode, We Built This City, Christine de Pizan. Cast your mind back, if you will, to the last of our episodes on medieval philosophy. That is when we first met Christine de Pizan. It's fitting that she should appear in both the medieval and the Renaissance series, since she could hardly be more suitable to represent the transition from one age to the other, and to undermine any notion that that transition was a sudden cultural shift, as opposed to a gradual evolution. Her lifetime went from the 14th to the 15th century. Geographically and in self-identity, she spanned Italian and French culture. She drew on medieval ideas even while foreshadowing such paradigmatic Renaissance figures as Machiavelli. Like other female authors of the Middle Ages, she wrote in the vernacular and not in Latin. Unlike those other authors, she was not a begine, a nun, or an anchorite, but an independent secular intellectual. In that earlier episode, we saw Christine attacking the misogyny and scandalous content of a 13th century text, The Romance of the Rose. This suggests a literary bent, something borne out by her writing career, which began with the composition of poetry. But her writings ranged widely, including moral advice, political works, an influential treatise on chivalry and conduct in war, and further attempts to defend the honor of the female gender. This multifaceted career was made possible by aristocratic beginnings. She called herself Christine de Pizan in honor of her father Tommaso, who hailed from the Italian town Pizano. At the nearby University of Bologna, Tommaso served as professor of astrology until he was summoned by the French king Charles V when Christine was only 4 years old. It was in this setting that Christine grew up, absorbing the cultivated and urbane values of Charles's court, which boasted a massive library and supported the translation of Aristotle and other classical authors into French. Unfortunately for Christine, this auspicious beginning was followed by a series of personal and political disasters. Within the decades spanning from 1380 to 1390, the king, Christine's father, and her husband all died, setting off turmoil in France and in Christine's financial affairs. Her experiences in a series of lawsuits gave her cause to complain bitterly later on about lawyers and their treatment of women, but she was able to keep moving in aristocratic circles, associating herself with a series of patrons, for whom she wrote many of her works. In the meantime, French political life was as unsettled as the bar tab at a miser's convention. The successor of the admirable Charles V was at first too young to rule, and then proved to suffer from mental illness, which meant a struggle by other compenders who wanted to hold the reigns of power. Christine reacted to this situation in her writings, pleading for an end to infighting amongst the French nobility. The very titles of some of her works are telling. Lamentation on the evils of civil war, written in 1410, and the book of peace, written from 1412 to 1414. She's often working within the genre of writing known as mirrors for princes. Christine herself uses this metaphor, speaking of her book of the body politic, as a mirror in which a prince or other noble reader may see himself, the better to eliminate his vices. She is here drawing on a tradition that goes back to antiquity by way of such medieval authors as John of Salisbury and Giles of Rome. A core assumption of these works is that the state can flourish only when it is led by a virtuous ruler, and Christine certainly shares this assumption. Her book of peace, for example, is addressed to the grandson of Charles V. She holds up Charles as a paragon of seven virtues that any ruler must possess, namely prudence, the excellence and practical reasoning from which all the other virtues arise, followed by justice, magnanimity, fortitude, clemency, generosity, and truthfulness. Of course, we should all strive to possess these virtues, but they are especially incumbent upon the ruler, who is held to a higher moral standard than other people because the welfare of the entire community depends on his character. In an age when some Italian cities were experimenting with republican forms of government, and despite her own experiences of a chaotic and violent France, ill-served by the principle of inherited monarchy, Christine continues to assume that the best rule is exercised by a single man. She's also a big believer in breeding. God may have created all humans equal, but those of a noble lineage have acquired better traits through their ancestry, just as some animals are more noble than others. Rather than questioning such elitist assumptions, she presupposes them as she tries to persuade her noble reader to strive for virtue. It is not enough to be descended from good, noble, and valiant people, she writes, if one is not like them oneself, in goodness and conduct. Yet, Christine is not envisioning an autocracy guided by nothing but the autocrat's own integrity. Instead, she frequently warns that the ruler must take advice from reliable advisors who should themselves be of good character. Vicious advisors can do just as much harm as vicious rulers if they manipulate the ruler for their own ends, usually by playing on whatever moral weaknesses they can find in the ruler. Often, thinks Christine, war is the dire result of such wicked advice. Her constant refrain is that the ruler must ponder the havoc unleashed by war and never be overly confident of his chances in a prospective battle. Military engagements are decided in large part by fortune after all, and fortune is more powerful than even the strongest monarch. This is not to say that Christine is a thoroughgoing pacifist. Echoing the medieval ideas about just war we examined way back in episode 247, she states that war may be rightly waged only in order to uphold justice, punish injustice, or recover land or other goods that have been stolen. However, she adds something new by connecting the theme of war to the importance of good advice. What makes a war just in Christine's view is not just the cause over which it is fought, but the procedure through which it begins. A ruler should pay careful heed to his counsel and only begin a war after giving the enemy a chance to justify himself. It's worth noting that in her pleas for peace, Christine lays special emphasis on the potentially damaging consequences for the ruler himself. This fits with an overall characteristic of her political writings, namely their appeal to the self-interest of her noble readers. For example, she explains that the wealthy should treat poorer citizens well simply because otherwise the underclass may rise up in revolt. Perhaps because of the political context, in these works she tends to emphasize practical, not theological virtues, encouraging that the ruler engage in action rather than prayer. She warns occasionally that vice will be punished by God, but more commonly that it will be punished by events, and defines her goal in the book of peace as helping a young noble to improve himself in respect of soul, body, and reputation. This hard-headed, if not cynical, approach seems a departure from the writings of the earlier medievals and even in anticipation of what we will find in Machiavelli. Her use of classical sources ranging from Aristotle to Ovid, Seneca, Cicero, and Boethius likewise seems to foreshadow the more elaborate classicism of Machiavelli. One cannot help but be pleasantly surprised that a woman was in a position to write such innovative and learned works. Her contemporaries were a bit taken aback too. When it suited her rhetorical purpose, Christine was happy to pose as inferior and inadequate owing to her gender. Even in the debate over the romance of the Rose of all places where her whole point is to stand up for the honor of the female sex, she refers to herself as a woman of untrained intellect and uncomplicated sensibility. But a story found in another work called The Vision sounds more convincing as a representation of the real Christine. One day, a man criticized my desire for knowledge, saying that it was inappropriate for a woman to be learned, as it was so rare, to which I replied that it was even less fitting for a man to be ignorant, as it was so common. That's probably my favorite single passage in all of Christine's writings, but I'm biased because it comes from her most obviously philosophical work. The Vision is a contribution to another genre familiar from the Middle Ages in which the author recounts an allegorical dream. It has its ancient roots in Plato and Cicero with medieval examples including Langland's Piers Plowman and of course the Romance of the Rose itself. The thematic unity and purpose of Christine's vision is at least as difficult to pin down as with either of those poems. Thankfully, it begins with a helpful introduction by Christine, explaining the meaning of some of the symbolic characters and imagery. The body of the work opens with a section on the history of France, followed by a survey of ancient philosophical ideas, and finally a kind of autobiography of Christine herself. To some extent, the point of this is pretty obvious. Christine is describing the way that fortune has its unpredictable way with earthly affairs. Her own life story in the final section mirrors the rollercoaster of prosperity, warfare, and deprivation depicted in the first part on French history, and in the middle, the exposition of ancient philosophical theories conveys the equally haphazard attempts of philosophers to discern the truth. That part of the vision is also, of course, a demonstration of Christine's own learning. Her deft summary of pre-Socratic views, which are then dismissed as bizarre and critiqued from an Aristotelian point of view, is the fruit of her encounter with scholastic philosophy, here presented as a journey through the halls of the university at Paris. In this case, the allegory is not too hard to decode. She tells of how she encountered a personification of our favorite subject, Lady Philosophy. In another moment of false modesty, one that would nowadays be called humble bragging, she writes, I knelt while thanking her to fill my lap with treasure, but since they were too heavy for my weak and feminine body, I carried away very little by the measure of my great desire, not so little, however, that I might exchange it for any other treasure or wealth. Of course, the use of Lady Philosophy is an allusion to Boethius. His constellation of philosophy inspired a number of medieval authors to write dialogues featuring a female personification of philosophy, nature, or some other abstract concept, educating a character who stands in for the author him or herself. This is typical of Christine's vision, which refers self-consciously to a wide range of earlier authors. Even the first sentence is an obvious echo of the opening line from Dante's Divine Comedy. But the Boethian source is particularly central because Christine took inspiration from him to write her own consolation in the third part of the book. After a fairly long autobiographical lament, which is a source for some of the information I mentioned earlier in this episode, for instance her legal battles and her father's interest in astrology, Lady Philosophy gives her some tough love. She chastises Christine by arguing that her sufferings stem from a misperception of what is truly valuable. In part, happiness can be attained just by looking on the bright side, as illustrated most strikingly by the suggestion that her husband's early death had a silver lining, namely that it gave Christine more time for her learned studies. But most important is to abandon desire for earthly riches, pleasures, and other goods, focusing instead on God as the true and perfect good. That's pretty typical advice that you might get from any number of medieval and renaissance authors, even if it takes on special resonance for us, since it situates Christine within the wider debate we've been discussing as to whether external goods like family and health have any true value. But more distinctive of Christine is the way this advice is subtly woven into an extended meditation on epistemology. Let's turn back to the second section, the bit about the history of philosophy. There, Christine is discoursing with another allegorical personification, whose identity is revealed only at the end of the section, Dame Opinion, who is responsible for the various convictions we all come to hold. Philosophical theories are only one example. Dame Opinion also claims credit for inspiring religious beliefs as well as political aspirations and plans. In fact, she complains that Christine has elsewhere been too impressed by the power of fortune when it is she, opinion, who is most often the true driving force behind historical events. It is, according to Christine, in the nature of opinion, that it lacks certainty. This is not to say that opinions must be false or counterproductive. Dame Opinion is pleased to take responsibility for the beginning of philosophy itself, when thinkers first had the curiosity to try to understand the world in general terms. Rather, opinions are just what modern-day epistemologists would usually call mere beliefs, that is, beliefs that are in need of something like justification to rise to the level of true knowledge. Furthermore, for Christine, opinion is always inspired by the functioning of the imagination. I would take all this to prepare the way for the autobiographical lament and correction by Lady Philosophy found in the final part of the work. Christine's unhappy assessment of her own life story is itself a mere and mistaken opinion that derives from her imagination and its faulty conception of the good. This is a kind of psychological malady that Lady Philosophy must treat, borrowing a medical analogy for philosophical advice that was already used by Boethius. In the same way, God himself acts as a kind of doctor for the soul, administering the bitter medicine of our trials and tribulations that we may emerge from them confirmed in virtue. In the year 1405, the same year that saw the composition of The Vision, Christine produced what is probably her most famous and celebrated work, The City of Ladies. Back in episode 295, we already touched on the debate she sparked early in her career over the treatment of women in the Romance of the Rose. Now, she returns with still greater ambition to the same subject. The City of Ladies begins with Christine picking up a now obscure book and finding it full of misogynistic sentiments, the same sort of sentiments she had earlier found in the Romance of the Rose. Somewhat unpersuasively, given her strident defense of womanly virtue in her earlier critique of the Romance, Christine falls into despair at the weakness of women. In the face of so many esteemed authors who have written diatribes against the moral and intellectual failings of women, how can Christine avoid lamenting that she herself was born female? It seems to her a mistake on the part of God to create women if they are indeed monstrosities in nature, and Christine cries out to him asking why he could not have been kinder to her by creating her as a man. At this point, an early 15th century reader might feel that they know what to expect. A philosophically minded author, sitting alone and in despair? Sounds like Boethius at the beginning of his Consolation of Philosophy, lamenting his fate as he awaits his execution. So our reader might expect to turn the page and see a female personification turning up to offer consolation, like Lady Philosophy in Boethius, or Lady Philosophy in Christine's own vision. A pretty good guess, but not quite right. Christine outdoes Boethius by having no less than three personifications appear to her, Reason, Justice, and Rectitude. Reason speaks first to defend the honor of womankind. A clearer allusion is to Christine's favorite writing genre, the mirror. Reason holds a mirror in her hand and promises to help Christine achieve self-knowledge. In particular, she will come to know the knowledge of female virtue. All this serves as a preliminary to the central metaphor of the text. The three leis will help to build a city for women, one stronger even in the kingdom of the Amazons in antiquity. Here we may see a more subtle dig at Jean de Mun's Romance of the Rose. Not only did he too personify Reason as a character in his poem, but his Romance depicts how a male lover batters his way through a fortification to ravish his beloved. Christine's city will be able to withstand such assaults. Its foundations are, ironically, laid by an effort at undermining. Lady Reason critiques the male authorities who have spoken so unkindly of women. For one thing, there is the familiar point, used against the authority of philosophers since the skeptics of antiquity, that even the greatest thinkers have not managed to agree on many issues. Perhaps in some cases they had good intentions and only sought to steer men towards sexual virtue and away from passionate love. It's an interesting admission, since this is what the defenders of the Romance of the Rose said Jean de Mun was seeking to do. But Reason adds that this is really no excuse, since it is wrong to depict admirable things as wicked, like someone complaining about fire because it burns things, forgetting how useful it can be. Christine turns the screw by having Lady Reason add that men often complain about female vice because they themselves are vicious, or because age has made them impotent and bitter. After this bit of ground-clearing and excavation, it's time to build the city itself. She has the three ladies describe the deeds and qualities of a wide range of virtuous heroines. Those named by Lady Reason exemplify intellectual merit and are drawn from pagan antiquity. She stresses that women have been great philosophers and made novel discoveries that advanced the cause of human knowledge. One example is Minerva, whose many insights concerning mathematics, writing, weaving, and other endeavors convinced the Greeks that she was in fact a goddess. Women have also been successful political rulers, even if they often had the chance to do so only because their husbands died, leaving them to rule as widow queens. Similarly, if their achievements in science had been lesser, this is simply because women are not typically educated as men are. If girls were sent to school like boys, they would show an equal aptitude for science. This is a remarkable anticipation of later pleas for the education of women, something we associate more with modern figures like Mary Wollstonecraft. Of course, Christine chooses to have pagan figures praised by Lady Reason because they show what women have achieved through natural gifts outside the context of Christian religion. But, Christine reminds us that the Virgin Mary opened the door to paradise for all of us, and other female saints and martyrs feature later in the speech of Lady Rectitude. Thus, Christine can claim to have both reason and faith on her side. Not content to defend women, she also takes time to excoriate the viciousness found among men, including Roman emperors like Claudius and Nero. In fact, misogyny itself is an unnatural vice, for we see in nature that all other male animals love the females of their species. Above all, men have no monopoly on virtue. To the contrary, women's bodily weakness is compensated by their moral character, something Christine compares to the way that Aristotle is said to have been profoundly ugly, something compensated by his brilliance. On the basis of her historical examples, Christine takes herself to have shown that the virtue of women is unassailable to the point that it can form the substance of an invincible imaginary city. This city is built to last, and lasted will, so long as her women readers are inspired to be virtuous themselves. Next time, we'll turn to some other women who weren't content to be readers, but also established themselves as writers. It was a remarkable and no doubt largely unforeseen result of the Italian Humanist Movement that a number of Italian women achieved sufficient education and showed sufficient ambition, that they were hailed for their eloquence and brilliance. Who were they? What did they achieve in? How did their contemporaries react? I've had a dream vision that tells me you'll join me next time to find out. Here on The History of Philosophy Without Any Gaps.