An interpretation of Machiavellis play Mandragola, showing that the most ridiculous figure in the play is also its master conspirator, and represents Machiavelli himself.

Chapter 4 charts the Decameron’s rewritings of exemplary anecdotes by Roman historical authors. The young Boccaccio has been associated with Trecento vernacularizations of Livy, Ovid, and Valerius Maximus, and his early engagement with translation and his commitment to Italian literary culture are indisputable. This chapter investigates how novella 2.9’s revision of the episode of Lucretia’s suicide in Livy participates in larger debates about the nature of women and the usefulness of generalizations. It also examines Decameron 4.1 – which takes its details from the suicide of Sophonisba – to argue that in killing herself like her classical forerunners, Ghismunda attributes a closer analogy between her situation and theirs than is warranted. The end of the chapter concentrates on Day 10, dedicated to the virtue of magnanimity, especially tales 10.3, 10.6, and 10.8, which echo exempla from Valerius Maximus’ Memorable Doings and Sayings. Although all of this day’s stories seem straightforward narratives of magnificent deeds worthy of imitation, the tales slide inadvertently into ambiguity and parody, belying their ethical pretensions.

Presumably not long after his arrival in Rome, Raphael drew a figure of Lucretia (Figure 7.1).1 The drawing is a telling example of the transformation of her reception. After 1500, the Roman heroine of freedom and chastity became a pin-up model.2 Raphael skillfully anticipates the requirements of the genre. Her torn attire follows the curves of her body, and a dysfunctional fold underscores her genitalia. Her hair is tied but slightly disheveled. The theatrical gesture of the left arm conveniently reveals her bare breast. The dagger in her right-hand changes into an overt phallic reference from a mortal instrument. Lucretia has just been raped and her suicide is imminent, yet the painter opts for a voyeuristic presentation of her body. The narrative context and physical signs of violence are retained inasmuch as they support this sanitized scenario.

Suicide is a neologism. First conceived in 1643 by Baconian polymath Sir Thomas Browne, it gradually entered enlightened parlance, universalised by Hume’s On Suicide. Previously, richly descriptive and differentiated depictions of the paradox of self-killing permeated the globe. Current research suggests a stronger fixation with self-killing in the West. Condemned by medieval theologians as the sin of despair, alternate tropes appeared during the Renaissance as humanists reintroduced classical models of toleration. Painters elevated Lucretia to the icon of Republican resistance. By the seventeenth century enlightened rationalism had emboldened John Donne to compare Christ’s passion to suicide. Nevertheless, popular culture and the authorities continued to punish the crime of self-murder harshly. Current research allows comparisons with Asia. In Japan, acceptance of seppuku and shinjū contrasted with condemnation for self-sacrifices by Christian converts. In India, Western observers alternately wondered naively at widow burnings (sati) or questioned their consensual nature. In Qing China, a cult of pious widows who killed themselves to avoid forced remarriage gained such popularity that the emperor introduced laws to moderate the proliferation of memorials. Ultimately, the interpretation of self-killing reveals much more about cultural values than it does about the state of mind of individuals performing the violent act.