Only a few years earlier this same Savonarola had come to Florence to preach, but at that time his halting speech, foreign accent, and unpolished prose had caused him to be laughed from the pulpit. It may well be that his violent hostility toward the city’s ruling class and its culture was fueled in part by that earlier rejection. But now after years honing his rhetorical skills in provincial villages, his words rushed forth in a torrent as if guided by the Holy Spirit; those who had earlier laughed at the uncouth monk with the piercing eyes and gaunt cheeks of a fanatic now trembled at his words and begged forgiveness for their sins. “But already famines and floods, sickness and other signs prefigure afflictions and foretell the Wrath of God,” he thundered. “Open, open, O Lord, the waters of the Red Sea and submerge the impious in the waves of Your Wrath!”
There was little, in truth, that was original in Savonarola’s thought, but he delivered his message of penitence and divine judgment with an almost frightening intensity that caused the guilty to repent and the righteous to rejoice. As the crowds swelled to hear his sermons so did his faith in his divine mission. “The chief reason I have entered the priesthood is this,” he wrote to his father: “the great misery into which the world is plunged, the wickedness of every man, the rapes, adulteries, arrogance, idolatry, the cruel blasphemies, to which this century has succumbed so that it is impossible to find even one of good will.”
Less than four years younger than Lorenzo, Savonarola seemed to belong to a different age. Yet something in his preaching captured the spirit of the moment. One can detect in his sermons the beginning of a crisis of confidence that will bring a sudden, violent end to the Lorenzan age. Optimism will soon be replaced by fear, faith in man’s nobility by certainty of his sinful nature, intellectual curiosity by fundamentalist rigidity. The embrace by the Florentine people of this man so hostile to everything Lorenzo stood for—the enlightened patronage of art and literature, the uninhibited enjoyment of carnal pleasures, a restless spirituality that questioned received dogma and sought the divine through intellectual inquiry—signals a sea change in the spirit of the Renaissance itself. Savonarola’s fiery rhetoric of guilt and repentance was a throwback to the ideology of the Middle Ages, but his reformist zeal also pointed to the future. His uncompromising stance against a corrupt Church marks the beginning of a powerful movement of reformation that will culminate with Martin Luther a generation hence and shatter the unity of Christian Europe.
The legendary battle of wills between Lorenzo and Savonarola, a clash of ideologies as well as a confrontation between two of the truly remarkable men of the age, was in fact somewhat one-sided. While Savonarola took direct aim at the lord of the city as the symbol of all that was decadent, Lorenzo was far more ambivalent about the man who had set himself against him. Like his friends Pico and Poliziano, he found much to praise in the passion and sincerity of the Dominican brother. Even in their views on religion they tread common ground for a while before their paths diverge: both, for instance, did not hide their contempt for a corrupt, worldly clergy and both tended to eschew traditional communal forms of worship in favor of a direct experience of God through the individual conscience. The main difference between the two is that while Savonarola only dealt in certainties, Lorenzo was plagued by doubt. Savonarola drew strength from the belief that he was in direct communication with God, while Lorenzo fell easily into despair as his most fervent prayers were met only by silence. “You have kindled a love for Thee in my breast,” wrote Lorenzo to a distant God, “only to vanish, never to be seen.”
The result was that while Savonarola hurled abuse upon the world, Lorenzo regarded its defects with ironic detachment. In fact they were a source of amusement; the shortcomings of men became so much grist for the literary mill. It is obvious from works like The Symposium, a mock epic in which the heroes are all drunken louts, and his erotic novella “Giacoppo,” that Lorenzo’s opinion of his fellow man was no higher than Savonarola’s, but his response was to poke fun rather than to scold. With his easy tolerance of the vices of men, and his tendency to indulge in many of them himself, he was less virtuous than the preacher but also more humane. His writings show an appreciation for the rich comedy of the human animal and little interest in forcing him to mend his ways. Savonarola, by contrast, believes in human perfectibility while making too little allowance for human frailty. Both approaches had their virtues and their limitations: Savonarola was genuinely concerned with the plight of the poor and labored to address the inequalities that led to so much suffering; Lorenzo, while spending enormous sums on charity, never believed that he or anyone else could make fundamental changes to the way things were. Lorenzo took things pretty much as he found them and was happy to exploit weak men and venal institutions for his own advantage; Savonarola cared too much for his own purity ever to engage in corrupt compromises with the world. When Lorenzo wrote to his son Giovanni, bound for Rome to take up his post, that “at present one sees such a lack of virtue in the College [of Cardinals],” he echoed the substance, if not the rhetorical style, of Savonarola. But instead of calling for divine retribution on “that sink of iniquities,” Lorenzo advised his son merely to make sure “not to slide into the same ditch into which [your colleagues] have fallen.”
Lorenzo was inclined to tolerate Savonarola’s excesses, and even to express a certain sympathy with his goals if not his means. These benign feelings, however, were not shared by the monk, who was becoming with each passing day more intemperate and more certain of his own infallibility. When Lorenzo stopped by the monastery, Savonarola made it a point to be away from his cell, and when he was named prior of San Marco he did not conceal his scorn for the man whose family had patronized the institution for generations, failing to pay the customary visit of respect to Lorenzo’s palace. “Here is a stranger come into my house who will not even deign to visit me,” Lorenzo remarked, more in sadness than in anger.
Despite repeated snubs, Lorenzo tried hard to placate the monk, even inviting him to preach in the chapel of his own palace. If Lorenzo hoped that his courtesy would take the sting out of Savonarola he was mistaken. The sermon he preached in Lorenzo’s house was, if anything, more insulting to the lord of the city than usual. Surrounded by Gozzoli’s opulent frescoes, which embodied everything he loathed, Savonarola delivered a message as notable for its courage as for its tactlessness. “I know a city,” he rumbled,
where the tyrants are incorrigible. They do not walk in light, but in darkness. They are haughty and vain. They listen to flattery. They do not restore their ill-gotten gain to those whom they have despoiled. Arbitrarily they impose heavier taxes on the population…. They exploit the peasantry…. They buy up votes and are guilty of dishonesty when they debase the coin of the realm.
According to one account, when the friar departed, Lorenzo turned to Poliziano and remarked, “There goes a brave man…and an honest one. But he must be broken.” The words, like so many of the tales surrounding their confrontation, may well be apocryphal. If Lorenzo had really wanted to break Savonarola he could have done so easily enough. Instead he showed his displeasure indirectly by offering his support to a preacher much more to his taste—the learned Augustinian monk Fra Mariano da Gennazzano. Poliziano’s description of Mariano explains why he appealed to Lorenzo. “I have met Fra Mariano repeatedly,” wrote the poet,
at the villa and entered into confidential talks with him. I never knew a man at once more attractive and more cautious. He neither repels by immoderate severity nor deceives and leads astray by exaggerated indulgence. Many preachers think themselves masters of men’s life and death. While they are abusing their power, they always look gloomy and weary men by setting up as judges of morals. But here is a man of moderation. In the pulpit he is a severe censor; but when he descends from it he indulges in winning, friendly discourse…. Lorenzo de’ Medici, who understands men so well, show show highly he esteems him, not only in that he has built him a splendid monastery, but also in that he often visits him, pre
ferring a conversation with him to any other recreation.
This “man of moderation,” probably with the encouragement of Lorenzo and his friends, took it upon himself to rebut the apocalyptic visions of Savonarola. In dueling sermons, Fra Mariano’s before a packed house at San Gallo and Savonarola’s given before 15,000 worshippers in the Duomo, they tussled over the souls of the Florentine people. In the building Lorenzo had constructed as a tribute to his learned friend, Fra Mariano chastised the Dominican monk for presuming to know the mind of God, quoting Jesus’ reminder, “It is not for you to know the times or the seasons which the Father has placed in his own power.” Across town, Savonarola struck back, accusing the Augustinian of hypocrisy and berating him for spouting elegant phrases that meant nothing. “He preaches from Cicero and the poets and not from Holy Writ,” scoffed Savonarola.
But in the contest between fanaticism and moderation, fanaticism has certain built-in advantages. While Lorenzo’s tolerant worldview could accommodate the fanatical friar, Savonarola’s more constricted view could find no place for the worldly, easygoing Lorenzo. It is often forgotten that it was Lorenzo and his cultivated friends who first invited the Dominican friar to come to Florence. And while in retrospect it seems as if Savonarola was determined to destroy the world that Lorenzo and his friends had done so much to build, as long as Lorenzo lived the battle lines were not yet so clearly drawn. The gulf that divided the “Preacher of the Despairing” from the urbane, hedonistic First Citizen was immense, but Lorenzo, now in failing health and focused on family matters, seemed to lack the stomach for an all-out war. The best he could do was to take some of the sting out of the preacher’s harangues. Even in his current diminished state Lorenzo’s generous spirit continued to exert a moderating effect, ensuring that the city did not fall completely under the spell of the hypnotic friar.
Ultimately the future belonged, if only briefly, to Savonarola. Had Lorenzo lived a few years longer it is possible he would have been able to prevent, or at least temper, some of the worst excesses of the coming age. But the vitality that had characterized the greatest decades of the Florentine Renaissance was already ebbing, in no small part because the man who had ruled the city during some of its most creative years was dying. Savonarola’s success was abetted by Lorenzo’s debility. By the time the preacher had found his voice, Lorenzo was beginning to withdraw from the public stage he had dominated for so long. His bouts of illness grew more frequent and more intense, and he knew death could not be long delayed. During those rare moments of relief he preferred to pursue his own private interests rather than dwell on matters of state. Much of his time was now spent at home, with friends or alone in his library, where he buried himself in books or pored over his collection of gems and cameos. When he was well enough to travel his greatest satisfaction was to supervise construction on his villas. He more often socialized with his children and with artists and writers than diplomats and politicians; those who came to see him on such matters were often turned away disappointed.
And when he did turn his mind to politics it was not to dwell on large issues of state but rather to reinforce those alliances that would secure his family’s future. On this front he had good reason to be pleased. He had been assured by his colleagues in government that, despite reservations about his suitability for the job, Piero would be recognized as his successor. Equally important, Giovanni’s elevation to the College of Cardinals meant that the Medici would have a strong presence in the curia to serve as a bulwark against possible discontent at home.
The celebrations marking Giovanni’s elevation were among the few bright moments in the gathering darkness of his final days. Giovanni received the cardinal’s hat from the pope on March 10, 1492, in the Balìa of Fiesole, after spending the night alone in the monastery deep in silent prayer. Lorenzo was too ill to attend, nor was he able to be there the following day when Giovanni celebrated High Mass in the cathedral. Following Mass, the sixteen-year-old cardinal paid a call on the Signoria, where he was showered with gifts amounting, according to Luca Landucci, who had difficulty believing it himself, to thirty loads of silver and household items valued at 20,000 florins. Hauling this load back to the Via Larga, Giovanni hosted a splendid feast for foreign dignitaries and leading citizens of the city. Here Lorenzo, stooped and in great pain, received the congratulations of the people, though his appearance was anything but reassuring. His guests were dismayed by his gaunt and ravaged frame, and word spread through the city that il padrone was dying. This was, in fact, to be Lorenzo’s final public appearance.
The following day Giovanni departed for Rome. Lorenzo, his mind still sharp, composed for his second son a long letter in which he tried to distill the wisdom gained in many years of public service. “Messer Giovanni,” he wrote,
You are much beholden to our Lord God, as we all are for your sake, as besides many benefits and honors our house has received from Him it has pleased Him to bestow on you the highest dignity our family has yet enjoyed…. It is incumbent on you to try and lighten the burden of the dignity you have obtained by leading a pure life and persevering in the studies suitable to your profession.
Lorenzo had come a long way from the young man whose indiscretions threatened to embarrass his parents. Now he was the one dispensing advice, no doubt comforted by the thought that Giovanni was far more likely to toe the line than he had been at the same age. Warning his son that he was about to enter a “sink of all iniquities,” he admonished him to choose his friends wisely and to cultivate habits of modesty and sobriety:
I advise you on feast-days to be rather below than above moderation, and would rather see a well-appointed stable and a well-ordered and cleanly household than magnificence and pomp. Let your life be regular and reduce your expenses gradually…. Jewels and silken stuffs must be used sparingly by one in your position. Rather have a few good antiques and fine books, and well-bred and learned attendants, than many of them…. Eat plain food and take much exercise, for those who wear your habit, if not careful, easily contract maladies…. One rule I recommend to you above all others, and that is to get up betimes; besides being good for health, one can meditate over and arrange all the business of the following day.
Some have interpreted this letter as Lorenzo’s last will and testament, the summation of the wisdom he accrued in his many years of service to the republic. If so it is a rather disappointing document, filled with practical tidbits but lacking any hint of a larger vision. But Lorenzo’s letter is most revealing for what it does not say. Written by a man who knew he was dying, the letter eschews rhetorical flourish. The advice he offers is sensible but conventional, the insights commonplace; the underlying message is one of wariness. He tells his son not to be carried away by the euphoria of the moment, reminding him that even at this moment of apparent triumph he should be on his guard against those who, inevitably, will seek to tear him down. Keep your eyes open, he urges, not only for false friends but for those tendencies in yourself that can do as much harm as the most treacherous enemy. It is a cramped, cautious vision of the world that has often been compared to Polonius’s famous speech to his son in Hamlet. But if there are no great pearls or flights of eloquence in this letter it is because Lorenzo has seen too much of sorrow and felt the sting of betrayal too often to indulge in grandiose visions. Take this happy event in stride, he seems to say, for the road of life traverses as many valleys as peaks, and only he who accepts this can move forward with a fair chance of success. Lorenzo is more eloquent, if not more uplifting, in a speech he places in the mouth of the dying Emperor Constantine in his play The Martyrdom of Saints John and Paul:
With endless tribulations I have reigned
And met the dangers offered by each day.
Rest there, my sword, with victories ingrained;
No more I’ll challenge Fortune in the fray.
Fickle is she: men lose what they have gained,
And those who seek too much will go astray.
The pain of
rule, its anguish, sons, you’ll learn
When you control the state for which you yearn.
Lorenzo’s pragmatism is a far cry from Savonarola’s Manichaean vision of the world as a battleground between the forces of good and evil. It more closely resembles that of their younger contemporary Niccolò Machiavelli, eschewing grandiose pronouncements in favor of astute observations intended to serve immediate objectives. Neither Lorenzo nor Machiavelli sought to depict men as better or worse than they were, knowing that only by seeing the world as it really was could they hope to achieve anything at all.
Everywhere Lorenzo looked he saw complexity and ambiguity. Even his celebrated hedonism was no mindless surrender to the sensual side of life. Enjoy your youth, he instructed the lads and lasses dancing in the Carnival, not because life is an endless parade of pleasures but because old age and death will quickly rob you of your ability to enjoy them—May blossoms will soon wither in the autumn frost. He was equally skeptical of any vision that predicted heaven on earth or the coming of the Millennium. He filled his poems with detailed observations of both the natural world and of human nature because he believed these solid facts to be worthy of respect and discovered in them an endless source of delight.* He saw no reason to assume that things would not continue, for good or ill, pretty much as they had always done. He was a restless seeker of something finer, but doubtful that he would ever find what he was looking for.
By the time Lorenzo penned this letter he was in almost constant pain. Poliziano describes the near constant fevers that had consumed him, “attacking not only the arteries and veins, but the limbs, intestines, nerves, bones and marrow.”†
Magnifico Page 47