by Linda Proud
Vespasiano da Bisticci, the bookseller, was sitting in the Chancellor’s chair, as if the most honoured guest. There were many others, too many to name, but suffice to say that anyone interested in ancient poetry was there on that day, gathered together in one place. The vaulted hall was soon full and young students were climbing up to the deep window ledges for a good seat and better view. Just as the doors were about to be closed, Sandro Botticelli squeezed in. I caught his eye and he made his way through the crowd to join me, grateful to find a man of his own status in a hall full of people he considered to be superior to himself. He looked around briefly but his gaze lingered on Giovanni di Pierfrancesco. It was not the look of lust, it was the gaze of the artist. Since Giovanni had sat for his portrait a year earlier, he had begun to appear frequently on Botticelli’s holy panels as an angel.
When a man is painted, he forms a bond with the painter: subject and object bound by the verb to observe. Lorenzo Tornabuoni, looking over his shoulder, smiled affectionately at Botticelli, who lifted his cap to him. ‘I must do him full face sometime,’ Sandro said to me. ‘Those eyes, those oriental eyes, not done justice in profile. What a sweet face.’ He sighed, not so much with envy as simple longing. Lorenzo Tornabuoni, eighteen years old, had everything a man could desire: good looks, a lithe figure, an excellent mind, a style of dressing copied by everyone else and now, just this year, a wife from the Albizzi family, so fine in every respect that poets were saying that she had been bestowed on him by Venus. We men could have responded to these bounties of young Tornabuoni with our usual venom if he had not been so pleasant that we all wished to befriend him. He was good at his Greek studies, but the copious praise he received from Poliziano was not only on account of his literary prowess: it was praise for the man. Whenever a philosopher spoke of a man of virtù, the image that came to our minds was that of Lorenzo Tornabuoni.
The hall quietened into a hush of expectancy as Poliziano came to the raised lectern and mounted the steps. They were expecting a poem: they received a discourse. In Latin, and careful to offend no one, Angelo outlined the history of poetry and claimed that poetry is the source of civilisation. ‘To behold the infinite, a man’s soul must be refined, tuned up to an exquisite note. When I speak of poetry,’ he said, ‘I use the term in its original sense and refer to all literature, not just that set in metric form. Writing – language – the Promethean gifts that make man able to comprehend the heavens: that is my subject.’
He went on to list and describe every poet that students should be familiar with, their works, the mythic realms they dealt with. Suddenly it stopped being a list of names in my ear and became a library of books in my mind’s eye. I had seen a volume of everything he mentioned. Whether an ancient manuscript, a modern copy or a printed version: all these books existed, here in Florence. Then I woke up to the significance of this moment. What Angelo was outlining was the potential for any Florentine to make himself familiar with this tremendous heritage, and to be among the first men ever to do so. For fifty years the Medici library had been accumulating, at San Marco, at the Badia on Fiesole, in Lorenzo’s own house, thousands of volumes, always with the intention of their being publicly available. The work of three generations had come to fruition. The library had come to maturity. I am sure mine was not the only heart thudding at the prospect opening before us.
When he finished there was tumultuous applause. It seemed to us then on that day that Angelo Poliziano had inaugurated a new age. The work begun by Cosimo de’ Medici, the work of a generation of scribes such as myself, Poliziano’s own work in collating copies and making definitive editions, had resulted in a library in which one could read Homer and Hesiod, Virgil and Ovid, Horace and Propertius, not to mention Cicero, Quintilian, Plato – every great name in the history of human literature.
The dark ages were over. The Golden Age was here, now.
23
THE SIX FRENZIES
1486
THERE ARE FIVE FRENZIES, NOT FOUR. BESIDES THE FRENZIES of prophecy, love, poetry and madness there is the frenzy of knowing. In Pico’s retreat in the hills near Perugia, in a room that had become part library, part scriptorium, there were more scholars than there were desks and some men worked standing up. The books being studied were arcane texts that were arriving from Spain, Persia, Turkey and India. A whole network of agents was finding these books, if books you could call them, for some were scrolls and others great sheets of parchment, containing the most ancient and esoteric lore. Pico’s wealth was haemorrhaging with the cost of these rare texts.
Unshaved and unkempt, he was dictating to Cristoforo Casale as I arrived, an essay based on the text from St John, ‘I give you my peace, I give you my peace, I leave you peace.’ Thoroughly excited by his own words, he was dictating so fast that Cristoforo could not keep up.
‘Ah, Tommaso, good, you are here,’ Pico said. ‘I need a man who can write at speed.’
‘I am no longer such a man,’ I reminded him.
Pico frowned as if trying to fathom my meaning, then he turned back to Cristoforo – who had been shaking his wrist to relieve it – and continued with the essay on peace that was to be part of the Oration addressing his audience in Rome. The words came like a waterfall and it seemed mad that such a subject be delivered with such urgency. I thought, truly, here is a hypocrite. He should be practising what he preaches. What does he know about peace? Yet when I read that essay later, I found that the words did what they said and brought peace to the soul, the wild horse of the unruly mind tamed by the steady hand of the trainer.
Before retiring, Pico took me by the arm and walked with me in the garden. It was cold and raining but he was not the kind of man to be influenced by the weather. He apologised for appearing rude earlier. ‘When the Muse is upon you, it is difficult to remember the gentle courtesies. I read in the Gospels every day and this morning these words about peace leapt out and the Muse was speaking; you know how it is, a moment’s interruption breaks the flow and you forget what you heard. There is so much to be done, so much to be said. Do you think they will understand, Tommaso?’
I was distracted, worrying about my shoes, now squelching. ‘You want me to help but I have lost my skills.’
‘I have said how sorry I am.’
‘I am trying to be practical. What can I do to help?’
‘I need you to collate the theses.’
‘Seven hundred of them?’
‘At the last count it was nine hundred. By next week it could be a thousand but nine hundred is a better number so I mean to limit myself. They need to be copied and checked and arranged under headings. I will write the headings. We need to keep everything simple. If you cannot copy them yourself, find someone who can. I want you to take charge of the work. We are leaving for Rome in two weeks.’
‘You want me to finish this work in two weeks?’
‘One week, because I need you to go ahead of us and find a printer. I want the whole text printed by the end of Advent and distributed to every university in Italy. Do you not have a brother in the Curia? There must be some system of communication among the universities, as among the churches. We need to use it. I want my theses sent to every university along with an invitation to all scholars to come and debate them in Rome in January. At my expense. All travelling costs will be at my expense.’
‘Can you afford it?’
‘Tommaso, such questions are for my secretary, Cristoforo. I am not to be distracted in my work, do you understand? Find a printer,’ he said. ‘No arguments. I am aware of your principles, but I do not have time for them. Find a printer. One that can do Greek and Hebrew letters.’
By any reckoning, nine hundred theses is a vast amount. I found help in the city and oversaw several men labouring day and night to meet the deadline. It is hard to convey the sheer vivacity of both Pico and his scholars. No one wanted to do anything but work. I should tell you about the theses, given that
today it is impossible to find a copy of them, thanks to the discrimination of his nephew and editor, Gianfrancesco. I should tell you about them, but forgive me, Erasmo, you might as well ask a worm to describe God. I have not studied at a university, am not a theologian, cannot speak Hebrew and Arabic, do not know what prime matter is, am not concerned with the principles of motion, have only a passing knowledge of metaphysics, astrology and numerology whilst knowing nothing at all about scholastic theology. I did try to understand this compendium of world knowledge but soon gave up. And perhaps that was a blessing for, not distracted by this plethora of mind-numbing detail, I could see the larger picture which, forgive my arrogance, I believe was not understood by the great doctors of the universities and the mighty cardinals of Rome.
So here, for your benefit, I give you the whole picture. You can fill in the details and find all the proofs for yourself.
It all begins with the Word; from the Word, through the alphabet of God, wisdom emanates, unfolding through the ages of Man. The original language was Hebrew: all languages derive and devolve from that, decaying with age, while the pure, original language has magical power even in its letters. The emanation of wisdom, according to Pico, ends with the Arabs. In the Latin West we display nothing of it. Instead we squabble over various interpretations of early fathers and ancient philosophers. The task is to reconnect with the fount of wisdom, to lay aside our hostility to the Jews and our overweening arrogance, to become humble disciples of truth, to become proper philosophers. To this end, Pico devised a ‘new philosophy’, derived largely from Plato and Aristotle, but one particularly fitted for our own times and understanding. There are a certain number of key propositions:
Multiplicity begins in unity. Therefore all things are related.
Different religions express the same truth in different ways.
Omnia sunt in omnibus modo suo – everything in every reality is reflected in some mode in every other. Thus all nature is joined in various occult friendships and affinities. This great cosmic principle is the key to decoding all sacred texts.
If we would study the Bible, then we must do so in Hebrew and Greek since words in translation are stripped of their primal power.
What was also obvious to me, although Pico seemed peculiarly blind to it, was that to argue such propositions in public with doctors and divines, whose task it is to keep strays within the fold, was foolhardy. How could he hope to succeed? But Pico was shining with an ethereal light, as if in raising angels he had become one. To him, nothing seemed impossible.
What he wanted in place of logical disputation in the universities, where Platonists squabbled with Aristotelians, and the followers of St Thomas Aquinas heaped scorn on those of Duns Scotus, was mystical contemplation. His intention was to dethrone the scholastic theologians. Perhaps there is a sixth frenzy – that of a man with a vision of Truth.
Something else I should tell you: it is usual in debate to defend propositions you agree with, but a great number of Pico’s propositions did not reflect his own opinion; they were the opinions of others that he wished to reveal as false. But no one understood that, and they took the whole confusion of propositions to be Pico’s own statements of truth. And for that he was condemned.
London, January 23rd, 1506
We dined with Colet this evening and, once again, discussed his plans for a school. Afterwards I walked with More and Erasmus to More’s house by Wallbrook. Erasmus has by nature a conviction that he is exempt from the rules that bind any position he happens to be in; it is a simple underlying assumption that, though they are necessary and good, laws of institution and society do not apply to him. Thus he is an Augustinian canon who has not lived in a monastery for years, a Dutchman rarely in Holland, a pious Christian not too often seen at mass. Such constraints that fetter the rest of us he casts aside to roam freely upon the face of the earth. This tendency is something which Colet simultaneously loves and abhors, for it creates in Erasmus an independent scholar of magnitude who will not do as he is told. On the way to Wallbrook, Erasmus was enthusing about the idea of a public school as something we (that is, the rest of us) should devote ourselves to wholeheartedly, with his full support.
‘Teaching children?’ I said. ‘It creates such a state of intellectual exhaustion that your own studies are soon neglected. To teach beginners is a purgatorial punishment: anyone good enough at his subject to attain the level of teacher is thereafter sentenced to repeat elementary rules over and over again, usually to those too young to appreciate them. To earn a living I am condemned to an infinite repetition of the Greek alphabet from alpha to omega when I would rather be at my own books, deepening my own understanding of the finer points of syntax and accidence, striving for ease, so that I may read Homer or Plato fluently.’
‘What is important, Tommaso,’ More asked, ‘if one would promulgate this knowledge? To keep it to ourselves or to give it to others? To teach children is the highest service to mankind.’
‘It is casting pearls before swine.’
‘Your view of children is harsh, my friend.’
‘Were you not a barbarian when a child yourself? I certainly was.’
‘And who civilised you?’
It was Antonio degli Agli, Bishop of Volterra. Remembering my kind benefactor, I at once regretted my words and revised my opinion. ‘Yes, very well, you speak truly. It is most noble to educate children – but many of them at once? It is that which I find disagreeable. I consider it most ill-advised.’
As we walked along Bucklersbury, one of the swarm of urchins who torment citizens like mosquitoes approached me and tugged on my gown. I brushed the little thief away. Erasmus, however, took a coin from his purse.
‘Stop!’ I said. ‘You know not what you do!’
Sure enough the gift was a honey pot to attract the rest of the swarm. Urchins came from every alley to buzz around us, each one demanding a coin with such increasing and hostile persistence that Erasmus was soon in danger of being robbed. Thomas and I swatted at the children, driving them off.
‘Christ enjoins us to give to the poor!’ Erasmus complained. ‘How can we practise it?’
‘These are not the poor,’ I said. ‘These are beggars trained by thieves.’
‘True,’ said Thomas. ‘We cannot help the individuals. We can only cure the society which, through injustice, creates orphans and beggars in the first place. And that, I think, is what makes Colet’s idea magnificent. As Plato said, give me a child before the age of six…’
More and Erasmus are not fitted by nature to be serious overlong and soon a lighter exchange was taking place. When they are together, the very air becomes merry. More has been quite transformed since the return of his friend and now steps along as if in a dance. They are more alike, someone said, than any pair of twins. I am not sure if it was their companionship or their happiness, but sharing their company exacerbated a sense of agitation that had been sown during the evening.
‘John Colet has the purest view of love,’ Erasmus said. ‘But love means different things to different people. For instance, to a young man it means the desire to impress the beloved, so that he cannot meet her before he has shaved off every whisker and put every hair in place, so as to present her with a picture of perfection; but in marriage love is the freedom and trust to have a belching contest with your wife, because such love brooks all imperfections.’
More laughed heartily and said he had not yet attained that altitude of love.
I tried to laugh, but was too disturbed by the joke, since I remembered that Elena never wanted to be seen by me until she had completed her toilet and dressing. I ascribed it to modesty, but Erasmus was suggesting it was lack of love! It could not be possible. He was wrong.
‘Such things are true only of peasants and the Dutch,’ I said.
Bucklersbury is unusual in London in that it smells sweet, due to the presence of many apothecaries
, spice merchants and perfumeries. In the darkness of night, the fragrance was intense. I paused and lifted my nose to the scent of roses. Such beauty in a smell…
During the dinner, Colet had asked each of us what plans we had made to fulfil the mission he has given us. Only Eramus had anything to say.
He had, he said, been tirelessly translating the plays of Euripides and then presenting them to great men in the hope of patronage. He has even rowed across the Thames to Lambeth Palace with Grocyn to visit the Archbishop of Canterbury. I listened avidly, expecting to hear descriptions of the palace and the man, but all Erasmus had to say was that he received three farthings or thereabouts for his Hecuba, not enough to send a letter to Italy, let alone a man.
‘It is hopeless, John. I am a pauper. And, before any of you offer, no, I am not going to accept gifts from you. Not again.’
‘Will you accept a gift from God?’ Linacre asked. ‘Just this day I heard that my fellow physician of the king, Gianbattista Boerio, is making plans for his sons to complete their education back in their native land. He is looking for a tutor. He will pay all travelling and living expenses for two years.’