by Linda Proud
‘Books written by hand are books written for the few. Why should men be starved of literature because they cannot afford it? Rich men commission books then lock them away as treasures: they hoard learning. Are all men who are not wealthy to be considered “the vulgar throng”? I am neither wealthy nor vulgar; nor are you. How many books do you possess? Only those you have copied for yourself. I agree that printed books are ugly to any man of taste and sensibility. Have you seen the Plato translated by Ficino and printed in Venice? Full of error: printed by a barbarian in the style of a barbarian. But it does not have to be so. Is it impossible for there to be beautiful books produced by machines?’
‘Yes, while the type is cut by goldsmiths. I’ll wager there is not a scribe among them; a copyist, perhaps, but not a scribe.’
‘What is the difference?’
‘The scribe who merely copies the fine hand of another does not even approach beauty. The true scribe, well-trained, knows the secrets of proportion. Aristotle says that beauty lies in the relationship of one thing to another, but that is only partly true.’
‘Is it then in the number, the underlying geometry?’
‘Harmony is there.’
‘Where, then, beauty?’
‘It is in the space between. Between the letters and between the lines.’
‘Aha!’
‘If you want to produce beautiful books by a machine, you will need a man who understands proportion, the relationship of the letters to the lines and the body of the text to the margins.’
He seemed to be charged with light at what I said. ‘So, it can be done.’
‘Yes,’ I agreed, ‘it is possible.’ We stared at each other for a long moment, then I snapped out of Aldo’s dream. ‘Nevertheless, the printing press is the invention of the devil. It is Poliziano’s view that, by its means, error spreads quicker than the plague. What was a fault in one book now becomes a fault in many. Worse, the most stupid ideas can now in a moment be transferred into a thousand volumes and spread abroad.’
‘While printing is in the hands of mere artisans it will be so, which is why it is vital for someone such as myself to enter the business.’
I was impressed beyond measure that a man of his age should have such an ambition, not only to change profession but to enter one about which he knew nothing.
‘All I need is funding…’ Aldo looked expectantly at Pico.
‘It will come, I am sure,’ said Pico. He turned to his secretary. ‘Can I afford it, Cristoforo?’
‘You can barely afford a night’s lodging.’
Cristoforo explained to Aldo that Pico’s fortune was locked up in the books which, loaded into a wagon and in the care of a trusted servant, were now making their way to Savoy. ‘What he has not spent on arcane texts, he has spent on paying the travelling expenses and accommodation for the numerous scholars who came to Rome to debate with him.’
‘What debate?’ Aldo asked, bemused, and then I laughed at him, that anyone could be so wrapped up in his own bookish thoughts as to be unaware of all that had befallen his beloved patron.
‘Have you heard nothing, Aldo?’ Pico asked.
Aldo shook his head. ‘I cannot keep up with you, my lord, you know that. Paris, Florence, Perugia, Rome. I did hear something about a woman in Arezzo…’
Pico interrupted him. ‘When a man begins the ascent towards God, every devil in the universe tries to pull him off the ladder.’ He spent the rest of the evening recounting his adventures to his nephews and their schoolmaster, the company sitting rapt as if at the feet of a master storyteller spinning tales about fabulous places that do not really exist. Gianfrancesco gazed at his uncle with unfaltering attention, drinking in everything he had to say, consuming the very substance of the man.
Pico was exhausted when he eventually retired. ‘My nephew is a leech,’ he muttered as Cristoforo helped him undress. ‘It was like being touched by the woman with the issue of blood.’
31
THE BURNING OF THE BOOKS
1488
IT WAS THE END OF DECEMBER BY THE TIME WE REACHED Turin and we lodged there for a week or so. Reunited with the pack train that had gone ahead, Pico greeted his wagon-load of books with joy and relief. I had never been so far north before and could feel the chill from the Alps. When we continued on our way in January, the closer we came to the mountains, the deeper was the chill, and as we made our way over the snowy pass it went into my soul. I thought I should never live to see the far side. Travellers often speak of the spectacular views of the Alps which take the mind off any discomfort, but we saw nothing except mist and – dimly – the walls of snow each side of our track, the wall to our right hiding the mountain, the one to the left hiding the precipice. Each step we took was an act of faith and no man in the party spoke throughout the ordeal but each wrapped himself up in his own thoughts and prayers. The only sound was the crunch of hoof and the grind of wheels on snow, the occasional snort of horse, and the collapse of snow walls behind us.
After we had crossed the summit of the pass and begun to wind our way down the mountain, we came out of the cloud and could see again, and what we saw were signs of spring, with little aconites poking out through the melting snow. As we came out of the snow fields, our spirits lifted and, after resting a night in an inn, we went on smartly through Provence.
In the last inn before Lyons we were approached by a young French priest.
‘Jean du Pic?’ he asked softly, sitting at our table.
Pico conversed with him in French and, hearing what the man had to say, the colour drained from his face.
‘They know we are here,’ he told us. ‘They have known all along. Apparently King Charles has been happy to turn a blind eye, but now the papal nuncios have found out where we are the king can be blind no longer. We shall be arrested tomorrow and tried for heresy.’
He rose from the table, thanked the priest graciously and went outside.
Cristoforo and I were left staring at each other.
‘We could run,’ I said. Having suffered from one of Pico’s escapades before, I did not wish to do so again.
‘And leave him to his fate?’
‘It is his fate.’ I was beginning to sound callous even to my own ears.
‘The fate of the loyal servant is his lord’s.’
‘You are a good man, Cristoforo. I wish I were as good. But to be tried as heretics – does your loyalty stretch that far? Let’s go and get him and make our escape. Germany, perhaps…’ But suddenly and simultaneously there were several shouts of Fire!, the smell of burning and the sight of flames through the opaque windows of the inn. We rushed outside, along with the rest of the inn’s guests.
The Count of Concordia stood looking at a bonfire his servants had made of his books and papers. By the time we arrived, there was no chance of rescuing anything. Within minutes the flames had consumed a library of Cabalistic and other texts worth tens of thousands of florins and many of them irreplaceable.
‘Mammalucco!’ I shouted at Pico, forgetting all courtesy. ‘How could you do this?’
‘Better the gods have them as a sacrifice than the demons as evidence.’
With that Pico walked back into the inn and went to bed.
Cristoforo shook his head in disbelief. ‘Have you ever met a man who lacks the fear of death? It makes him happy and it makes him rash. My lord is like that with regard to money. It has no power over him.’
It certainly had power over me. My bones turned to jelly to see such a fortune curling and melting in the fire. But worse than the loss of fortune was the loss of knowledge.
‘Do you think this is enough to save him? To save us?’
‘He thinks so. That is enough for me.’
32
THE THRESHOLD OF PURGATORY
1488
WE WERE ARRESTED THE FOLLOWING MORNING AND TAKEN acro
ss France chained together in an open wagon, a foul and jolting journey on rutted roads that lasted several days. The fortress of Vincennes has a keep so high that it can be seen from far away, soaring above the tree tops of the royal forest on the edge of Paris. When at last the walls came into view, then we knew how high that keep was, and how disproportionate to its surroundings. A place without proportion is a place without harmony; no wonder it had been abandoned as a royal residence and put to a function more in keeping with its sulphurous-grey stone. It was as surely a prison as if it had been designed as one. Sometimes men of rank and standing are, when incarcerated, given a suite of rooms not unlike their own at home, and I had rather hoped this would be the case for the Count of Concordia, but as soon as I saw the fortress I knew it to be a vain hope.
As we passed through the great gates I looked up in desperation at the sky, at the clouds scudding over the blue empyrean, as if for the last time. Then it was in through the hole to Hades. We were taken across the cobbled courtyard and made to climb the stairs to the top of the keep. ‘Heretics,’ they told us, ‘always go to the top so that the influence of heaven can reach them more easily.’ Although the climb threatened to burst my heart and lungs, I was glad I was a heretic and not the kind of sinner who was put underground.
We were pushed into a small chamber that stank of French urine (it’s different). The other two crossed at once to the window, to judge how high it was above their heads, while I bent over heaving for breath with a stitch in my side from the climb. When the door closed with a massive thud, when the key grated in the lock and the bolt went home, then my lungs gave out. I inhaled in a gasping wheeze but found no air. As I strained for breath my throat cried like an organ pipe. Pico and Cristoforo turned. They seemed to be unaffected by the suffocating chamber. I fell to my knees, clawed at my shirt, ripping it open at the neck, and implored help from my companions with bulging eyes. Cristoforo drew back in fright, but Pico came and spoke to me as if I were the Gadarene swine.
‘Be quiet! Be still!’ He laid his hands on my head and the inner juddering gradually ceased. ‘You are safe, Tommaso.’
‘I have nightmares,’ I stuttered, ‘of being trapped in a small space. I wake up clawing for breath. When that key turned…’ My lungs were squeezed by terror again. Pico’s grip on my head grew firmer. ‘Trust in God, Tommaso, or if you cannot, then trust me. These are not your last moments.’
He went to the middle of the chamber and calmly looked about him. There was not much to see – not half as much to see as there was to smell – just a couple of benches, a rush-strewn floor and a heavy oak-beamed ceiling.
‘How long are we going to be here?’ Cristoforo wanted to know. ‘Will they try us for heresy? Do they burn heretics in France? Do they kill you first? – oh, God!’
‘We have a choice,’ said Pico. ‘Go mad within the hour, or penetrate the veils of this world. This is purgatory and the choice is to slip into hell or try for paradise.’
Cristoforo slid down the wall and sat heavily on the floor with his head in his arms. ‘I am not capable of it.’
‘God thinks you are, or you would not be here.’
Hearing the key turning in the lock, I jumped towards the door. It opened and one of the guards coming in held me back with a pike. A man behind them entered bearing a large book. ‘Bible,’ he said gruffly, ‘by order of the King.’
‘Take it away,’ said Pico at once, proving to our captors that we were indeed heretics, and of the worst kind.
‘Oh, my lord…’ said Cristoforo in despair.
‘I want no books,’ Pico insisted, courteously showing the guards out. ‘It is time,’ he told us, ‘time to approach knowledge without reading. Besides, I know the Bible off by heart. What passage would you like to have read?’
‘Oh, about St Peter in prison I should think,’ I said. Just then the sun reached in through our high window and caught Pico in its beam. He smiled.
‘I do believe in angels, as you know, but the freedom I seek is not the miraculous unlocking of physical doors.’ Promising to be our Bible whenever we should wish to call on him, he arranged three stools and bade us sit together. He gave us a line to contemplate: I am the way, the truth and the life.
I had practised contemplation many times before, with varying degrees of failure. Pico was right: it was easier in prison, for there was no alternative activity to tempt the mind. All three of us went deep on that first occasion and, as day followed day, we went deeper still. Plunging into stillness, into the way, the truth and the life, into the I am.
When we were not in contemplation, Pico taught us the mysteries. I had asked him about the ‘tenth sphere’, the sphere beyond the nine of the Great Chain of Being, saying that I did not understand what it was. He replied: ‘Man alone of all beings, whether brutes or gods, has the freedom of choice in his actions and the ability to ascend. In that he is the envy of the gods, who are as fixed in their sphere as the animals and plants in theirs. Man – or the Soul of Man – alone may make the ascent of being. But that man who is happy in the lot of no created thing, who withdraws into the centre of his own unity, his spirit, becomes one with God, in the solitary darkness of God, who is set above all things, and surpasses all. That is the tenth sphere: it is beyond Creation, it contains Creation. It is the source of all.
‘Therefore we must disdain earthly things to attain heaven. But if you would attain unity, then you must disdain heavenly things also. By this method, we may hasten to that court which is beyond the world and nearest to the Godhead. There, as the sacred mysteries relate, Seraphim, Cherubim and Thrones hold the first places. If we have willed it, we shall be second to them in nothing. And at last, roused by ineffable love as by a sting, like burning Seraphim rapt from ourselves, full of divine power we shall no longer be ourselves but shall become He Himself who made us.’
‘Is this what was meant by the inscription over the gate to the Delphic Oracle, the injunction to “Know Thyself ”?’ I asked.
‘He who knows himself in himself knows all things, as Zoroaster first wrote, and then Plato in his Alcibiades. As they say in the East, “That Thou Art”. In the Greek tradition, “The Self is the true Apollo”. This wisdom has flowed from the East to the Greeks, and from the Greeks to us. It is all in Iamblichus.’
‘And is this union the aim of magic?’
‘There are two forms of magic and two kinds of magician. One seeks power over nature by the invocation of demons, which is abhorrent. That is the definition of evil: to take things for oneself. The other form of magic is the utter perfection of natural philosophy. The word “magus” in Persian simply means “worshipper of the divine”. As the farmer weds his vines to elms, so does the magus marry heaven and earth. Magic is nothing less than high and holy philosophy, and all the great, wise men such as Pythagoras, Socrates and Plato were practitioners.’
We did not spend our months in prison entirely transcendent of all fear. Indeed, Cristoforo and I spent much of the time in agitation, standing on each other’s shoulders for a few moments at the window. We could see little of the city of Paris in the distance and nothing at all of the fortress below, but we could hear the sounds of soldiers at practice, for the fortress was a garrison of one of the brigades of the French army. Now this was a wonder that both Cristoforo and I were boyish enough to want to see for ourselves, for we had no idea what a national army could be like. In our own lands, where we knew only mercenary forces, the standing army of the French was as legendary as the sphinx or basilisk. Out of desire and desperation, Cristoforo hoisted himself high by the power of his arms and succeeded in getting his head out of the window – at the risk of losing his ears as he withdrew it again. He told me of a vast infantry in formation below, in such wonder as if he had seen angels. ‘They wheel like starlings, the many acting as one. Incredible!’
Pico had no interest in soldiers. Training his mind to rest itself on God, he learnt
to disregard all passing thoughts and physical discomforts. Sometimes I had nightmares, my dreams cooked by the flames of imaginary fires, but Pico became more and more quiet and, with the passing of weeks, began to exude a spiritual substance. What do I mean by that? Only that, in his presence, it became increasingly difficult to worry about the future. The peace of his soul bathed the cold stone with subtle warmth and light.
Contemplation is not like carpentry – once taught, ever known. In spiritual disciplines, instruction needs to be regular and constant, and with Pico I had a teacher on hand. I have never found the practice easy and have always preferred the way of action, seeking the Divine in my work. But in prison it was easy. With the body forced into stillness by circumstances, and with the lack of sensory impressions, the mind was starved of the thoughts, dreams and images which are its daily occupations. The slightest fidget or the sound of rats, instead of being a distraction, now acted as a reminder that my attention was drifting. We used various key statements from scripture to contemplate and, after a while, they would disappear, displaced by inward silence; then it was as if resting in a boat on a calm lake. Sometimes the boat would suddenly sink to the bottom and, providing one avoided fright or alarm, there one knew the most profound and limitless peace. Time vanished. All was now and eternity. And the only thought was the fervent hope that this might never end. But then the key would turn in the lock and some stale bread and stewed vegetables be delivered, and the spell which is no spell but a vision of true reality would be broken.
On one occasion, the contemplation went very deep indeed. Peace is not in the mind, it takes it over; it comes from behind, as it were, and engulfs you like a warm wave of the ocean. I was drawn out of myself to become myself, my true self, utterly calm, utterly potent with fine, unexpressed energy, the lord of myself. Know Thyself. This Self. The true identity. All was silent except for the steady, slow breathing of my companions, and then, as if from some infinite distance, I heard a sound which I can only express in Greek: ei. The period of contemplation came to an end when each of us simultaneously inhaled deeply, as if life in this world requires more air. It took some time before my eyes would open: in truth, I did not wish to leave where I had been. I asked Pico about the sound I had heard and he said it is the greeting of the Divinity to the one who approaches. ‘Ei – “Thou Art”. That is the call into the tenth sphere you wanted to know about,’ he said, appreciatively. ‘Also known as the Sabbath of the Soul.’