Female Faces in the Fraternity. Printed Portraits Galleries and the Construction and Circulation of Images of Learned Women in the Republic of Letters

Abstract

How women tried to secure a place in the early modern male-dominated intellectual field has been the subject of numerous studies over the last decade. The most visible sign of their growing presence in the intellectual field—their printed portraits—has, however, received surprisingly little critical attention. This chapter discusses printed portraits of learned women as vehicles of public image in the male-dominated Republic of Letters. It unravels how the inclusion of the likenesses of four prominent contemporary learned women—Luise Gottsched, Emilie Du Châtelet, Laura Bassi and Magdalena Sibylla Rieger—in one of the most ambitious printed portrait galleries of the eighteenth century, the Bilder-Sal, contributed to their representation as intellectual authority in the Republic of Letters. Especially due to their visual nature their portraits proved ideal vehicles to readily disseminated representations of female intellectual authority across regional, national and linguistic borders, finding their ways to the study rooms of prominent scholars. As such, they contributed to a more inclusive image of the intellectual across Europe. It remained, however, a fine line between embodying intellectual authority and maintaining female modesty. Besides reflections on their intellectual capacities, these women’s portraits continued to spark discussions on their physical—and evidently female—appearances.

Collecting portraits of the learned was a popular practice in the early modern Republic of Letters. By the eighteenth century, it proved to be such an essential part of the prevailing intellectual habitus, that the German philologist Sigmund Jacob Apin (1693–1732) published a treatise on how to assemble these collections. Contrary to what the title—Anleitung wie man die Bildnüsse berühmter und gelehrter Männer mit Nutzen sammlen (Instructions on how to usefully collect the portraits of famous and learned men)—suggests, Apin adopts an more open view on who could become part of these intellectual “group portraits” in terms of diversity: “Since at all times various women have manifested themselves who have practised and excelled in theology, philology, philosophy, and, especially, poetry”, he states, “a Collector Imaginum makes his collection even more impressive by including them” (Apin 1728, 44–45).¹ A rather progressive viewpoint in a period learned women were still regarded as anomalies in an institutionalized intellectual context and it was far from evident portraits presenting them as established scholars would be received withsole enthusiasm. The prominent historian of philosophy Jacob Brucker (1696–1770), nevertheless, took Apin’s words by heart.² Anticipating the growing demand for likenesses of the learned, he co-initiated a project that would result in one of the most ambitious printed portrait collections of the time. Between 1741 and 1755 Brucker, together with the Augsburg engraver and publisher Johann Jacob Haid (1704–1767), published a portrait gallery presenting the famous learned of their days entitled Bilder-Sal heutige Tages lebended, und durch Gelahrheit berühmter Schrifftsteller (Portrait gallery of living writers, famous for their learning). Building on a longstanding tradition, the initiators intended to innovate this popular genre: they wanted to present the Republic of Letters through the most resembling portraits of the learned yet, both in word and image, and to do so they closely collaborated with the selected scholars (or their nearest and dearest). Also, in reach the project wanted to surpass its predecessors. The editors aimed to reach all the corners of the Republic of Letters with their ambitious enterprise: ten instalments, published simultaneously in German and Latin—as the Pinacotheca Scriptorum (Portrait gallery of writers)—each containing ten carefully produced portraits and biographies of a wide variety of scholars from different national (albeit with a strong German bias), religious and academic backgrounds.³ Driven by their borderless and inclusive ambitions and in line with Apin’s advice, from the very start the compilers decided to include also learned women.⁴ “Because our times, too, are so lucky that here and there a woman gloriously presents herself on the stage of learning”, Brucker states in the introduction to the first volume, “a place in this collection is also reserved for her” (Brucker 1741, [5]).⁵ This is their full right, he emphasizes later, since by nature, both men and women are given equal intellectual capacities and the only reason learned women are still underrepresented is because societal order and traditions dictate them to take over duties that prevent them from fully dedicating themselves to their studies (Brucker 1741, on Luise Gottsched, [1]).

In the end, four contemporary women became part of the Bilder-Sal: the German poet, essayist and translator Luise Adelgunde Victorie Gottsched (1713–1762) in the first instalment, the French Mathematician Émilie du Châtelet (1706–1749) and the Italian physicist Laura Bassi (1711–1778) in the fourth instalment, as well as the German Pietist poet Magdalena Sibylla Rieger (1707–1786) in the fifth instalment, agreed to be part of the prestigious project. Brucker had set his eyes on a least one other women, the German poet and writer Christiane Mariana von Ziegler (1696–1760), but eventually she—nor any other women—did not make the final cut (Döring 2013, 306. Letter from Brucker to Gottsched, 11 January 1741). Was the inclusion of these four ladies of letters a sufficient fulfilment of Brucker’s promise to give learned women a permanent and prominent place in the project? And can the female imagery of the Bilder-Sal, as Ruth Hagengruber has argued in her analysis of its textual content, be seen “as an endeavour […] to transform the cultural atmosphere and awareness with regard to women’s participation in intellectual pursuits” (Hagengruber 2019, 124)? By analysing their conceptualization and circulation, this essay argues that, despite their limited number, learned women’s portraits included in the highly ambitious and internationally orientated Bilder-Sal indeed marked the opening of a new chapter in the visualization of female intellectual authority in eighteenth-century Europe. Conceptualized and published in direct dialogue with the imagery of learned men included in the same instalments, these portraits visually presented learned women as equal participants to the intellectual debate. In addition, since the editors tried to actively involve the selected scholars in the making of their portraits and biographies, many letters survived providing unique insights into the ways these learned women themselves (Gottsched and Du Châtelet in particular) thought about being presented as intellectual authorities and their inclusion in this group portrait of the contemporary European learned elite.

The Republic of Faces: Embodying Intellectual Authority in the Republic of Letters

As a printed portrait gallery, the Bilder-Sal was part of a longstanding tradition inspired by the more general popularity of likenesses of the learned in the early modern Republic of Letters. Although portraits of the learned had been circulating since classical antiquity, the genre gained significance from the sixteenth century onwards.⁶ Both scholars’ biographical details and physical features became increasingly important as the idea gained ground that intellectual inspiration was not drawn from some external source but from the individual’s own inner, evocative powers. Consequently, portraits of the learned started to circulate widely in the Republic of Letters, being included in letters (the picture serving as the face-to-face introduction between colleagues that were unlikely to meet in person) (Waquet 1991, 22–28) and displayed in libraries and study rooms (Le Thiec 2009; Waquet 1998). Viewing the faces of like-minded contemporaries as well as learned predecessors from all corners of the learned world was assumed to act as inspiration and spark one’s own mind, as the humanist Justus Lipsius (1547–1606) already explained in his De Bibliothecis syntagma (1602) (Hendrickson 2017, 120–121). The increasing prominence of portraits of the learned was also reflected in the book and print production: supported by technological innovations of the printing presses, engraved author portraits became omnipresent in the early modern period (Howe 2008; Griffiths 2016). Prominently placed in front of a text, these portraits were used to glorify and ennoble the author, forcing the reader to recognize the authority conveyed by their gaze (e.g. Chartier 1994; Burke 1998; Enenkel 2011). As a result, not only profit-driven publishers and booksellers, but authors themselves started to get actively involved in the construction, production and distribution of their public visual image (e.g. van Deinsen and Geerdink 2021).⁷ Consequently, the purpose of printed author portraits changed from predominantly memorializing the commendable dead to depicting the intriguing living. As such, these popular printed likenesses of the learned—which were not only included in books, but were also sold, collected and displayed separately—became an essential part of the public image of authors, both on an individual and a collective level (e.g. Enenkel 2015; Rößler 2018).

The increased significance of scholarly portraits in the representation of the intellectual collective became most evident in the growing number of printed portrait galleries of the learned and literate that were published throughout the period. In the introduction to the Bilder-Sal’s first instalment, Brucker explicitly places the project in this longstanding humanist tradition.⁸ As the visual revitalization of the older (predominantly textual) genre of the collective biography—with roots in both Classical Antiquity (e.g. Plutarch’s Parallel Lives) and Christian hagiography (e.g. Jerome’s De Viris illustribus)—the “catalogue of the learned” developed as a subgenre of the popular Renaissance viri illustri (e.g. Fulvio’s Illustrium Imagines, 1517; Giovio’s Elogia 1546/1551 and Vasari’s Vite 1550; 2nd ed. with portraits 1568) (Fumaroli 2015, 365–96). It proved an ideal medium for the strongly internationally orientated early modern learned community to showcase their identity: as visual genealogies able to cross dimensions of both time and space, portrait collections not only provided the abstract notion of the Republic of Letters with actual faces; in presenting it as a collective image and defining it through examples they also actively shaped it (Solleveld 2022, 158). As such, they functioned, as Françoise Waquet has argued, as “le lien organique du monde savant” (The organic link of the learned world) (Waquet 1991, 24) and enhanced the public visibility of an intellectual community through a set of recurring and recognizable characteristics and collective display. These publications, at least at first, were often directly linked to an academic context (e.g. Kirwan 2022; Testa 2016) and published, as Anthony Grafton has argued, as the early modern equivalent of an academic website and presented an appealing collective image of the university’s intellectual community to a broad audience (Grafton 2003). Needless to say, women, who were generally excluded from the academic system, were absent from these collections. Because of that, a strong, consistent and, of course, masculine stereotypical image of the intellectual emerged that functioned as a direct reference for new generations of (aspiring) men of letters who wanted to become part of this visual genealogy (van Deinsen 2020, 2022, 85–86).

Although textual catalogues of “famous women” flourished as a subcategory of the viri illustri throughout the early modern period⁹, the lives of learned women were (albeit sporadically) included in biographical overviews of scholars all over Europe; they long stayed exceptions in visual portrait galleries of the learned, especially when they focused on contemporary scholars.¹⁰ More generally speaking, the increased importance of portraiture to the representation of intellectual identity presented early modern learned women with a challenge (e.g. Trotot 2016; Vanacker and van Deinsen 2022). While a rapidly growing number of female intellectuals found their way to the presses and published their works, printing their likeness complicated their public presentation (Simonin 2002; van Deinsen 2022). The increasing autonomy of the individual notwithstanding, the opportunities for women to participate in the early modern public and intellectual domain remained limited (e.g. Goodman 2009). The demand for visual imagery of the learned proved to be a new hurdle: if speaking and writing were already considered challenges to the prescribed definition of modest female behaviour, printing one’s picture for purchase and distribution among a wide and often unknown audience, seemed all the more scandalous (Ezell 2012; Schneikart 2018). Learned women who wanted to use their portraits to embody intellectual authority often struggled, as I have argued elsewhere, with meeting social expectations at the same time (van Deinsen 2022). When a portrait of a learned woman was printed, even when it was constructed with the utmost care, it could easily meet with public disapproval. Numerous examples have survived containing mutilations and harsh remarks (van Deinsen 2022).¹¹ Most portraits of early modern learned women, then, were published posthumously, their likeness predominantly serving a memorial function. It was only by the eighteenth century that learned women’s aversive attitude toward printing their portraits changed on a large scale, and the number of circulating printed portraits of living European female authors quickly increased (van Deinsen 2019).

Female Faces in the Fraternity: Including Learned Women in the Bilder-Sal

By the time Brucker and Haid initiated their printed portrait gallery in the 1740s, perhaps for the first time in history, the time seemed ripe to include contemporary learned women structurally from the start and even count on their active participation. By not giving them a volume of their own, but rather incorporating them in a commonly accepted canon, the collection presented them with a rare opportunity that allowed them to present themselves openly as equal participants of the Republic of Letters. Despite this progressive choice, however, Brucker did ignore one of Apin’s advice with regard to the optimal inclusion of women in a portrait collection. Whereas Apin suggested to incorporate their portraits amidst their male colleagues, in alphabetical order, in the Bilder-Sal a special spot was reserved for them near the end of every instalment, underlining they were still a category of their own.

Perhaps even more than their written portraits—which presented these women not only as learned individuals but also as representatives of an ongoing lineage of female intellectuals in history—their visual images contributed to their singular public display as an intellectual authority.¹² Seamlessly fitting his general template, Haid portrayed each of the learned women in three-quarters, in the midst of their study room. Like their male counterparts, they are placed behind a stone portal adorned with their family coat of arms and credentials (i.e. full name, function and date of birth), with the difference that—apart from Du Châtelet—the names of their husbands were also included. In addition, in his attempt to present the selected women in the best possible way, Haid seemed to have paid more attention to iconographical details. Whereas only about half the portraits of the male scholars produced for the Bilder-Sal contained meaningful attributes, Haid made sure all portraits of the learned women highlighted their specific fields of expertise. Both Gottsched and Rieger are depicted as successful writers; the former at her desk studying a book; the latter with laurel wreath, the symbol of poetic honour and a wax seal in a wooden box attached to a deed, alluding to the fact she had been given the title “Kaiserliche Dichterin” (Imperial Poetess) by the University of Göttingen following a privilege by the Holy Roman Emperor Charles VI (1685–1740) (Figs. 5.1 and 5.2).

Fig. 5.1

© Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam

Johann Jacob Haid (after Elias Gottlob Haussmann), Portrait of Luise Adelgunde Victoria Gottsched, 1741.

Fig. 5.2

© Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam

Johann Jacob Haid (after Wolfgang Dietrich Majer), Portrait of Magdalena Sibylla Rieger, 1746.

In line with the widely circulating imagery of Du Châtelet, then, Haid presented the Marquise in front of her books and sphere, referring to her contribution to the study and advancement of Newtonian physics.¹³ Finally, in the case of Laura Bassi, whose appointment as the first (honorary) female professor in Europe in 1732 had also made her name in the regions above the Alps (Cavazza 2014, 76–78), he went a step further.¹⁴ The “Bolognese Minerva” is presented sitting in her study, holding a book in her hand, an armillary sphere in the background, and another book resting on the sill, partially covering a sheet with several geometrical symbols. By including Newtonian-inspired figures, references to Euclidean geometry, the Pythagorean equation, and—so it seems—a few random propositions, Haid ostensibly wanted to present the attentive observer with an anthology of Bassi’s physics, highlighting her broad contribution to the field (Figs. 5.3 and 5.4).¹⁵

Fig. 5.3

© The Trustees of the British Museum, London

Johan Jacob Haid, Portrait of Emilie du Châtelet, 1745.

Fig. 5.4

© Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam

Johann Jacob Haid, Portrait of Laura Maria Caterina Bassi Verati, 1745.

Although, at first sight, these women seemed to blend in easily in the intellectual group portrait as presented in the Bilder-Sal, behind the scenes, there was often more going on. This becomes all the more apparent from several letters leading up to the publication of their individual portraits. As was the case with the male scholars, Brucker and Haid spared no effort to involve the selected women actively, making use of their extensive scholarly network to get into contact. The first woman selected for the ambitious project, Luise Gottsched, came from Brucker’s inner circle. He maintained a longstanding intellectual friendship with her husband, the distinguished writer Johann Christoph Gottsched (1700–1766). From the early stages, he kept the famous Gottsched couple closely informed on the latest developments of the project in general, and their own portraits in particular.¹⁶ In the case of Du Châtelet, Johann II Bernoulli (1710–1790), a member of the prominent Swiss family of mathematicians that was well represented in the Bilder-Sal, was asked to act as an intermediary.¹⁷ Between June 1743 and January 1745, he exchanged several letters with the Marquise on her becoming part of the collection.¹⁸ For the portrait of Bassi, the editors reached out to the Augsburg-based canon Giovanni Battista de Bassi (1713–1776), a cousin of hers, who in turn, due to a lack of time, would leave the job to his trustee, Giovanni Luduvico Bianconi (1717–1781), a Bolognese physician who resided at the Augsburg court. These efforts to get the women to participate actively were crucial since the initiators had set the unprecedented goal to provide the Republic of Letters with the most resembling portraits of its key members, both textual and visual. When it was within the realm of possibilities, the editors wanted the selected authors to be involved in every step of the process: from providing them with the best portrait and comprehensive biographical information, to commenting upon the proofs.¹⁹ As such, the included scholars (or their advocates) were explicitly invited to shape their own imagery. “It would take too much of me to list all the Lady's merits one by one, nor would a notary’s protocol prove sufficient. Therefore, add to it what you consider most suitable”, Bianconi writes to Verati (Cenerelli 1885, 201, Letter from Bianconi to Verati, 26 November 1744). How far Rieger influenced her portrait is, as of now, unknown and due to an unforeseen confluence of circumstances, Bassi’s portrait was eventually published without her input.²⁰ But in the cases of Du Châtelet and, especially, Gottsched, the correspondence leading up to the publication of their portraits provides unique insights into their ambivalent attitude toward their visual public imagery.

Disappointing Displays: The Continuing Struggle to Visualize Female Scholars

At first, both Gottsched and Du Châtelet proved enthusiastic about the request to become part of the intellectual group portrait Brucker and Haid had planned. The invitation reached Luise Gottsched, via her husband, in the very early stages of the conceptualization of the Bilder-Sal. In a letter dated 27 March 1740, Brucker informs his good friend Gottsched that the engraver and publisher Haid had approached him with the exiting idea to publish jointly a new printed portrait gallery. Haid himself would fabricate the state-of-the-art portraits and take care of the overall production and Brucker was asked to employ his extensive network and expertise as a historian to select and contact the authors. Overtly enthusiastic, Brucker directly started to plan the first programmatic instalment in which he wanted to highlight the project’s inclusive ambitions, by also incorporating a woman. His thoughts went out to Frau Gottsched:

I have not been able to think of a better candidate than your wife. I know and admire her merits and characteristics so highly that I consider it a privilege to present the portrait of such a rare adornment of our fatherland to the world through an artistic hand, and the meritorious depiction of her glorious achievements through my little pen. (Döring et al. 2012, 446, Brucker to Gottsched, 27 March 1740)

If Luise was willing to cooperate, it was important that she send a painted portrait of herself as soon as possible, as well as a biographical sketch, so Haid and Brucker could get to work. After a little persuasion, Luise gave in, and by July, a freshly painted portrait reached Haid (Döring et al. 2012, 500–02, Brucker to Gotthed, 20 April 1740). Du Châtelet, as well, proved eager to accept the request without giving it a second thought. “I am very flattered”, she replies to Bernouilli, “by the company in which they want to put me and that they thought of including me in the collection you spoke of”. She promises to send a copy of a recent portrait of her by the famous artist Jean Marc Nattier (“who is at present the best for portraits”) from Strasbourg (Du Châtelet 2018, 123, Du Châtelet to Bernoulli, 3 June 1743).

Despite their initial enthusiasm, however, upon receiving the proofs, both women were eventually disappointed. Notwithstanding the egalitarian ideals behind the project, in the case of the women, it still proved difficult not to let their appearance prevail over their inner qualities. Especially Gottsched was unhappy with how her appearance was depicted. In transposing the sample portrait (depicting Gottsched from the waist up) to the “three-quarters” (i.e. from the knee up) Bilder-Sal template, Haid had been forced to adjust her posture. And although Brucker had explicitly promised several times that the changes would by no means impact the authenticity of the likeness, upon viewing the proofs Luise did not recognize herself (Döring et al. 2013, 29, Brucker to Gottsched, 17 August 1740; 254, Brucker to Gottsched, 29 November 1740). Not only was the wrong family coat of arms included, but the portrait also confronted her with a woman “too large and stiff of posture” (Döring et al. 2013, 304, Brucker to Gottsched, 11 January 1741). This extraordinary physiognomy was only enhanced by the fact the depicted was presented against a background of—what the Gottscheds interpreted as—four shelves filled with titleless folio-size books (305). Having not seen her in real life, Haid had transformed the petite woman into a giant. Although he did not consider all the comments valid, Brucker promised to get the necessary adjustments made in order “to present the image of such a great person perfectly to the scholarly world” (306). After consultation with Haid, however, this was easier said than done. The minor flaws (such as the family coat of arms) were easily fixed, but the problem with Gottsched’s giant stature required a whole new design. Running out of time, Haid’s only feasible solution was to add a very short arm to indicate the person was not tall at all (Döring et al. 2013, 316, Haid to Gottsched, 14 January 1741). These adjustments could not prevent the final portrait from disappointing again. And when sometime later another portrait of Luise was transferred to the copper by the Leipzig artist Johann Martin Bernigeroth, the couple did not miss the opportunity to send a copy of the new likeness to Brucker to show him it was in fact possible to portray a female scholar accurately (Döring et al. 2013, 464, Brucker to Gottsched, 19 June 1741).

It would not be the only time that Haid struggled with depicting scholars he had not seen in the flesh before, women in particular.²¹ Upon viewing the proofs of her portrait, Du Châtelet proved also not impressed. Due to logistic issues, she had not been able to send over the preferred Nattier portrait but was forced to provide a copy she liked less (Du Châtelet 2018, 135, Du Châtelet to Bernoulli, 1 October 1743).²² When Du Chatelet received the proofs in the winter of 1745 she seemed not surprised the printed portrait was not to her liking. In her response, she makes no bones about it: “I received, sir, the six portraits that you announced to me. I admit that they are frightening” (Du Châtelet 2018, 190, Du Châtelet to Bernoulli, 25 January 1744). In contrast to Luise Gottsched, this French mathematician did not entirely blame the engraver (“but it is less the fault of the engraver than of the painter”). The confident Marquise even proved able to see some humour in it: “My self-esteem is still at stake, because those who will see me [in real life] will find me less bad, since one always assumes that the portraits are embellished”. For Du Châtelet, both the prestige of being counted among the most important learned of her day brought together in the Bilder-Sal, and of having the most flattering biography, partly written by Voltaire, highlighting her intellectual accomplishments, proved more important than the portrait engraving that was only one of many. Although she expects Nattier—who was wrongly named in the print as the creator of the original—would not be very happy to see his name associated with the resembling likeness, she admitted looking forward to the moment it would be published.

“I Hope it Finds Its Way to Every Studyroom”. The Bilder-Sal’s Circulation

Both Gottsched’s determination to make her likeness to her liking and Du Châtelet’s delight at the publication of her portrait—despite its mediocrity—are rooted in the potential resonance the Bilder-Sal could have in the scholarly world. As mentioned before, from the start the initiators cherished great international ambitions and the project was carefully designed to have the widest possible reach in the Republic of Letters. Not only were the instalments printed in both German and Latin, the lingua franca of the international scholarly community (Döring et al. 2012, Brucker to Gottsched, 27 March 1740), Haid’s presses also proved capable of producing portrait engravings in unprecedented numbers. “For Haid is it no effort to deliver 800 to 1000 prints, he is unmatched in this”, Brucker writes to Gottsched (Döring et al. 2016, 568, Brucker to Gottsched, September 1745). The choice of authors was also made with an international audience in mind. On the one hand, compatriots were sought “whose beautiful writings have also been well received among foreigners” (Döring et al. 2014, 189, Letter from Brucker to Gottsched, 8 April 1742); and, on the other hand, foreigners were included “so that it may also be sold in France and Italy” (Döring et al. 2014, 465, Letter Brucker to Gottsched, 14 October 1742).²³ Their portraits, then, were brought from all over Europe to Augsburg.²⁴ This meticulous publishing strategy could not, however, prevent that the sale of copies did not always go as planned. In a letter to Gottsched, Brucker complained about the fact their Latin edition was less popular than expected, whereas the German edition, to his great surprise, was eagerly purchased in Holland, Sweden and Hungary (Döring et al. 2016, 226, Brucker to Gottsched, 22 September 1744). In addition, the ongoing War of the Austrian Succession (1740–1748) made international circulation more difficult.²⁵ He nevertheless had little to complain about the resonance that the Bilder-Sal enjoyed abroad:

Perhaps God will soon help us to peace […] I would bring […] many copies to Italy, since Venice, Florence, Livorno, Lucca and Genoa have already written to me about it, and the work is eagerly read by Italians. (Döring et al. 2016, 315, Bruck to Gottsched, 17 December 1744)

Despite their modest number and sometimes poor execution, the portraits of learned women included in the series particularly proved to catch the eye of the international public. Brucker had been betting on this from the start. Already in his first letters to Gottsched, in which he tried to entice Luise to participate, he repeatedly pointed out the possible impact the project could have on her international reputation. He promised her it could even help her to gain “the glory of all foreign women” (Döring et al. 2012, 446, Brucker to Gottsched, 27 March 1740). That her portrait, indeed, was well received by the scholarly world became clear shortly after the first instalment was published. In October 1742, the euphoric editor could update the Gottsched couple on its success. Especially in Italy the volume was “very well received”. Particularly, the portrait of the German poetess had provoked positive responses (Döring et al. 2014, 465, Letter Brucker tot Gottsched, 14 October 1742). In its detailed review of the series’ Latin edition, the Florentine scholarly journal Novelle letterarie pubblicate, for example, had highlighted Gottsched’s likeness to emphasize the important contribution of contemporary learned women to the Republic of Letters more generally:

…and finally, Vittoria Lodovica Adelgunda Gottschedia, since erudite women are also given a place in this noble collection. And it is a rare delight of our time to be able to, even among the weaker sex, boast such universal literature that the admiration of the ancients can be greatly diminished, to save now even more powerful expressions. (Novelle letterarie pubblicate 1742, 256)

It seemed that Brucker’s figurative promise that Luise’s portrait would find its way “to every study room” in the Republic of Letters and inspire contemporaries came true (Döring et al. 2013, 255, Brucker to Gottsched, 29 November 1740). Judging by the frequent reference to the portrait in the correspondence of the Gottscheds, many of the prints Haid had provided fell in the eager hands of the learned.

As was generally the case with portraits of the learned, the likenesses of learned women in the Bilder-Sal were particularly popular because they provided the public with a rare opportunity to meet an admired scholar whom they were unlikely to ever meet in person. As such, they could function as a substitute. “I hope Sir Haiden’s burin and knife […] have depicted in copper what Leipzig has the good fortune to admire in the original”, Brucker wrote to Luise (Döring et al. 2013, 285–86, Brucker to Luise Gottsched, 21 December 1740). Her portrait, indeed, was regarded as a potential worthy substitute. When the royal counsellor in Dresden, Johann Christian Benemann (1683–1744), lamented in a letter to Gottsched about the missed opportunity to meet Luise, he admitted having found comfort in the idea that he would hold her portrait shortly: “I am looking forward to seeing her soon in the copper” (Döring et al. 2013, 197, Letter Benemann to Gottsched, 31 October 1740).

Although it is difficult to gain systematic insight into the exact circulation of printed portraits in the private context, the references to Luise’s likeness in the correspondence offer a good idea of the potential reach and functions they acquired after publication. In addition to contemporaries who managed to lay their hands on the image, the Gottscheds themselves—despite their initial dissatisfaction with the result—turned out to be eager to distribute the portrait among their friends and colleagues. They often gave it a prominent place in their study so that it could serve as intellectual inspiration or conversation piece (c.f. Döring et al. 2013, 542, Rosner to Gottsched, 22 September 1741). The Swiss historian Johann Georg Altmann (1695–1758), for example, admits in a letter to Luise having her portrait on display:

I am not insensitive by nature and, allow this widower the pleasure of displaying your picture, as engraved by Mr. Haid, in my room in such a way that it catches the eyes of all those who visit me, so that I am always given the pleasant opportunity to praise your merits. (Döring et al. 2014, 6, Altmann to Luise Gottsched, 1 November 1741)

That the portraits indeed drew attention there is shown by a remarkable and somewhat humorous story that reached the couple via the German Germanist Cölestin Flottwell (1711–1759). Whereas Flottwell had previously reported with great enthusiasm that Luise’s portrait had been given a place of honour in his study, next to that of the prominent philosopher Christian Wolff (1679–1754), he now had to urge his good friends to send “a few copies of her beautiful copperplate engravings […] as soon as possible. A Fräulein v. S. has taken my copy by force” (Döring et al. 2015, 448, Flottwell to Gottsched, 14 December 1743; Döring et al. 2016, 261, Flottwell to Gottsched, 17 November 1744) (Fig. 5.5).

Fig. 5.5

© Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam

Johann Jacob Haid (after Gottfried Boy), Portrait of Christian Wolff, 1741.

The Gottscheds saw the comedy in it and in return, and they sent him some new copies: “The requested portraits, bad as they are, also follow here; and we consider them fortunate that they have been deemed worthy of a robbery by such beautiful hands” (Döring et al. 2016, 293, Gottsched to Flottwell, 1 December 1744). Such “fan-like” situations would continue for years and invariably caused Luise to oscillate between flattery and discomfort. Illustrative is an ironic reaction to praise of her portrait by Dorothea Henriette von Runckel (1724–1800) where the female modesty topos with which women writers have dealt for centuries with compliments on their behalf emerges again: “The little idolatry you are practicing with my picture is flattering. Your husband could do me a great favour if he threw this engraving into the fireplace” (Kording 1999, 181, Luise Gottsched to Von Runckel, 26 May 1753). Despite her inclusion in the ambitious Bilder-Sal, Gottsched remained susceptible to the female modesty topos.

How women tried to secure a place in the early modern male-dominated learned community has been the subject of numerous studies over the last decade. The most visible sign of their growing presence in the intellectual field—their printed portraits—has, however, received surprisingly little critical attention. Yet, due to their visual nature, their portraits proved ideal vehicles to disseminate representations of female intellectual authority easily across regional, national and linguistic borders and were displayed in the study rooms of prominent (male) scholars. One could argue that by including the portraits of contemporary female scholars in the Bilder-Sal, Brucker and Haids’ project marked a new emancipatory stage in the acceptance of learned women as the embodiments of intellectual authority. Within this “intellectual group portrait”, their portraits presented the public with an unprecedented image that merged two hitherto long seemingly incompatible socio-cultural categories: being a woman and being learned. By including living female scholars to the visual genealogy of the learned, the Bilder-Sal opened a new chapter in the visualization of female intellectual authority in Europe.