by Linda Proud
On this day in the garden, Lorenzo told Angelo of his plan to take the boy into his own family. ‘I’ll offer the father whatever he desires.’
‘You mean, you are going to buy Michelangelo?’
‘If that is what is required.’
It seemed to us that Lorenzo was rescuing Michelangelo from the fate of being the son of Ludovico Buonarotti (whose price turned out to be very low – he gave away his son in exchange for a job in the customs house). Now, I sometimes wonder if Lorenzo wasn’t rescuing himself from being the father of Piero, Giovanni and Giuliano. What he wanted was a son who saw the world the same way he did.
‘In Michelangelo,’ he said on that morning, ‘the art of sculpture will not only be revived, it will be advanced. And God willing, I shall take him into my own house, to give him the company and education of men such as yourselves, and he shall be refined.’ He gave the chief task of Michelangelo’s education to Angelo.
‘He has a passion for the nude figure which is frustrated by holy subjects. Can you find something for him from the ancient authors?’
Angelo, who had recently been reading Lucian, thought at once of the Battle of the Lapiths and the Centaurs.
‘Whatever you come up with, I shall commission from him. Just have as many figures as possible – test him, stretch him – ask of him a multitude of naked men in a huge variety of attitudes.’
Angelo promised him that he would. And so, having decided Michelangelo’s future in his absence, the patron and his companions continued to walk the grounds, their discussion turning to plans for a building to house Lorenzo’s library, a collection now standing at ten thousand books.
42
POETRY IS AN ART OF DIVINATION
1490
THAT IS HOW IT WAS IN 1490, A FRENZY OF REINVENTION. We had new frescoes, new sculpture and, in the university, new learning. At the beginning of the academic year, Poliziano, building on previous lectures, reached the fruition of his thesis. His opening lecture was a list, a list that went on and on and on, a list of all the occupations of men. Not just a list, but a set of categories, three in all. He had little to say about the first category, which was theology, other than, ‘As you all know, it is the noblest subject.’ The listing of the second category, however, took over an hour, for it contained all the common occupations of men.
Shop keepers, craftsmen, bargees.
It would have been stupefying if it had not been funny.
Rope-dancers, sailors, embalmers.
The students packed into the hall stared at him without comprehension. Yes, he had drawn all these occupations from his reading in all the books of the world, and where he did not know what a particular term in Greek might mean, he said so. But what was the point of all this?
Buskers, carters, bath-house keepers, armpit-hair pluckers, pimps and brothel-keepers.
New learning? Or a poet who loved words above reason?
‘And with these I have reached the dregs of society.’ He took a deep breath and began his third category, with which, he said, we would not be familiar: rhetoric.
What did he mean? Most of us in the hall had trained in it, many were part of its faculty. In the category of rhetoric, he said, is poetry. No one was surprised at that. But he went on, and his voice became more lyrical and energetic as if some force other than himself was powering his words. Poetry, he said, is an art of divination. And then the hall went very quiet.
‘It is the mother of all arts, since everything I have mentioned to you today, every single word, has been culled from poetry. Therefore poetry contains all knowledge.’
Poetry, he said, is a composite art, partaking of both reason and invention. It depends on discovery and observation, but it also depends on contact with other realms. It is semi-divine, half way between heaven and earth. In this category, along with poets, he placed philosophers, seers, prophets and wise women.
Angelo stood at the lectern, his arms raised, the high priest of poetry speaking to his disciples. The young students of the Florentine Studio ignited. Such an idea was both ancient and entirely new. No longer were Homer and Hesiod, Virgil and Ovid, to be considered mere entertainment; they were sources of true knowledge. But one man present at the back of the hall was not inspired and threw back his black cowl so that he could hear better the heresy of this Orphic professor.
43
POETRY IS NOT DIVINE
1490
TWO MONTHS LATER, SAVONAROLA DELIVERED A SERMON in which, speaking as if possessed by the Holy Ghost, he cried out against pagan ideas that were destroying the morals of the city. He had, he said, looked at all the world’s learning and had categorised it. It all flows from sacred theology, flows downwards, ever- descending through grades of materialism and depravity, until it comes to rest in ‘the stinking shit which is poetry.’
44
POLIZIANO CONFRONTS SAVONAROLA
1490
THE FRESCOES AT SANTA MARIA NOVELLA WERE UNVEILED just before the Feast of the Nativity. Angelo was standing with the very men who appeared with him on the wall – Ficino and Landino – each of them dressed as Ghirlandaio had depicted them, with crimson gowns and plum-coloured caps. Other men portrayed in the frescoes mingled in the crowd, most of them of the Tornabuoni and Tornaquinci families, while Domenico Ghirlandaio, in a blue tunic swathed in a red mantle, stood with his brothers and assistants in the centre of the chancel, looking sublimely receptive to the praise he was receiving.
Men gathered in hushed groups, pointing out to each other the wonders of the walls. ‘A magician,’ they whispered, ‘an alchemist.’
There were Dominicans about, as was to be expected since Santa Maria Novella is one of their convents. They said nothing but served refreshments to this notable gathering of the leading citizens of Florence. Lorenzo Tornabuoni joined Angelo’s group.
‘Fra Girolamo is here,’ he said, in that soft, lilting voice that made us all listen, no matter what he said.
‘May his heart open to the truth of beauty and his mouth be sweet,’ Angelo replied.
Ficino, who was very enthusiastic about the friar and his calls for the Church to reform, frowned at him. ‘Do not be cynical about our man of God.’
Angelo considered him, plucking at his lip. At home Maria and I had listened to him ranting about this damned friar who had blasphemed against poetry, ranting about Florentines who were sleep-walking into the lair of a wolf. For Poliziano, Savonarola’s sermon had made the matter plain: here was an enemy to everything that Lorenzo de’ Medici had built. Why could the rest of us not see it? But in public he was more circumspect.
‘I want to believe,’ he said to Ficino, ‘as you and Pico believe, that God has sent a prophet to Florence, that Savonarola has the power to bring about great change, but the rational disposition of my soul does not allow it.’ He gazed at his short friend. ‘Marsilio, I have read too much history and not enough natural philosophy. I do not share your unfounded optimism. But I will not damn Fra Girolamo by instinct alone, or else I am sharing your error. No, I’ll go and investigate.’ So saying, he detached himself and went through the crowd to the preacher. ‘So, Frate, what do you think of the walls?’
‘Colourful,’ said Savonarola, smiling. ‘Very colourful.’
‘Do you consider it unholy that men of our own times be depicted here?’
Savonarola stared piercingly at Poliziano. ‘Vanity, vanity, all is vanity,’ he replied. ‘Any man who believes he may win favour of God by paying for decorations is a fool. God would prefer white walls if it meant pure souls.’ His eyes, staring straight into Poliziano’s, blazed. Angelo said later that he felt like a dirty grub in that glare of supercelestial perception.
‘We disagree on the matter of poetry,’ he said, falteringly.
‘We do indeed. Any time you wish to come and speak to me about it, I shall be available to you. God awaits you, my son, God awaits y
ou with open arms.’
Angelo came back to us, drained of colour.
On St Stephen’s day at the Palazzo de’ Medici there was a conversation about Savonarola. Lorenzo said that he was considering recommending him as the next prior of San Marco. Angelo tried to dissuade him. ‘There is something not right with that man.’ Everyone at the table disagreed, all feeling the refreshment of having in our midst a courageous preacher who spoke the truth, a man who practised what he preached.
‘Lorenzo, please…’ Angelo implored his patron.
‘What is it, Angelo? Say what it is that troubles you in one sentence. Otherwise I’ll presume that your objection is based on resentment.’
‘Resentment? What do I have to resent?’
‘One sentence.’
The high priest of poetry stood with his mouth open, but the sentence did not come.
45
THE ICE STORM
1491
DURING EPIPHANY THERE WAS A STORM, A STINGING HAIL of tiny balls of ice. One moment we were in sunshine, the next we were being stoned by the large cloud that covered Florence. The ice granules lay on the streets, on the crowns of hats, in the folds of hoods, on the backs of horses, piled up in open carts and made the marble pavements treacherous. They filled your shoes and made them flatulent, or sent you down on your arse, all dignity lost for merchant and notary, artisan or scribe.
Thus it was on the first day. On the second the Arno froze, trapping fishing boats and bringing the mill wheels to a halt. Boys skated between the Ponte Santa Trinità and the Ponte Vecchio, bearing icicles like lances. By the third day, when the trees were festooned with crystals and animals were dead in the fields, the owners of estates went out to consult with their contadini. The wise among them pruned their olive trees down to the stock. People looked at the stumps and began to say that God was angry, that this was a sign of the end of the world. Had not Savonarola been preaching the Apocalypse? Well, here it was. People took the ice storm as a sign that we did, indeed, have a prophet amongst us.
‘Every tree that bringeth forth not good fruit is hewn down, and cast into the fire,’ Savonarola proclaimed in the square outside San Marco, and made it clear that he had in mind the pope and all men in high places who were not devout and sincere.
I told Angelo about it later, but he was as well-versed in the Gospels as the rest of us were not, and knew where the quotation came from and its context. He read from St Matthew: Beware of false prophets, which come to you in sheep’s clothing, but inwardly they are ravening wolves. Ye shall know them by their fruits. Do men gather grapes of thorns, or figs of thistles? Even so every good tree bringeth forth good fruit; but a corrupt tree bringeth forth evil fruit. Every tree that bringeth not forth good fruit is hewn down, and cast into the fire. Wherefore by their fruits shall ye know them. He stared into his own fire reflectively. ‘We would be less easy prey to false prophets if we read the scriptures for ourselves.’
He, the least outwardly Christian of us all, was perhaps inwardly stronger in the faith than most. Where others went to mass regularly and confessed their sins, he read the book on which our faith is based, at a depth and penetration impossible to the average mind.
‘As it is,’ he continued after further reflection, ‘we let others do the work for us and become enslaved to them.’
Pico, who had listened thus far with grudging appreciation, now objected. ‘Are you speaking about Savonarola?’
‘I am speaking of all preachers. The quantity of them increases daily and the people are becoming trapped in a cycle of sin and repentance.’
It was true that many were preaching in various churches but only one was drawing vast numbers. To Savonarola flocked the poor, the disaffected, the women. ‘Preacher of the Despairing’ he was called; if the Count of Concordia had not been regularly in the congregation, it might have stayed that way, but Pico’s frequent attendance attracted others, if only out of curiosity. Why should the young, intelligent Count be drawn to this preaching friar? Compared to the other preachers, who had voices like volcanoes – deep, loud and ready to pour hot fury over the people – Savonarola often seemed moderate and just. He only thundered in his prophetic frenzies. These he tried always to resist, but the resistance only made them that much more explosive. When not possessed by prophecy (by the Holy Spirit, said some) Savonarola spoke gently.
Maria had been to hear him herself, sometimes in my company, sometimes on her own. No other preacher was addressing himself particularly to women and he found an intelligent audience in Maria Poliziana. In most arguments, she sided with Pico against her brother, whom she accused of being cynical, but on this evening she swopped sides. ‘I wish he would not prophesy,’ she said. ‘I do not like it when he thunders. His true voice is soft, and he speaks much good sense.’
Pico smiled on her with amusement. ‘So you are not keen on the voice of God?’
‘Voice of God!’ spluttered Poliziano. ‘Voice of the deceiving demon, more like. Maria is right. There is nothing wrong with this man when he speaks for himself, but when he starts to shiver and shake, his eyes rolling in his head, well, stop your ears.’
‘It is the voice of God,’ Pico insisted.
‘Gianni, Gianni, Gianni. I love you above all men, but some- times I could stick your head in the well until your brain cools.’
Pico ignored him, concentrating on Maria. ‘Do you feel drawn, my sister?’
‘Drawn to what?’ she asked suspiciously.
‘To the conventual life.’
‘No, she does not!’ I snapped, with such vehemence that everyone jumped. Maria stared at me, as if to fathom the cause of my passion, but I did not understand it myself. Not then.
‘Leave things as they are. Nothing here must be disturbed,’ I muttered in embarrassment and took myself off to bed.
46
FEAR OF THE FUTURE
1491
IN THE FOLLOWING LENT, SAN MARCO COULD NO LONGER hold the numbers wishing to hear Savonarola. He preached in the Duomo, thrilling the Florentines by denouncing the clergy, saying they were ‘given up to outer ceremonies of which they make a trade, while neglecting the inner life of the spirit.’ It made you want to cheer out loud.
Somewhat unnerved that his recent threat of imminent evil had come to pass with the ice storm, he made no mention of visions but concentrated instead on morality and faith. But then half way through his sermon, his voice began to swell and he grew powerfully animated and cried, as if to God himself, O Lord, thy word has become like unto a fire within me, consuming the very marrow of my bones. Therefore am I derided and despised by the people, but I cry unto the Lord day and night, and I say unto you: Know that unheard-of times are at hand.
I shivered as if ice had just run down my spine. It seemed impossible to doubt that what he said was true. The future, in that moment, became a source of fear.
47
WET DREAMS
1491
THERE WAS ONCE A YOUNG MAN OF FERRARA, A POET OF twenty-two, who woke up in moonlight, the silver beams lying across his body, his charged body that tingled with every sensation. He had dreamt of Laura, so vividly he could feel her next to him in the bed, the warmth of her body against his, her rosy lips kissing his shoulder, his neck, his ear. He groaned and stirred. His hand moved under the sheet, down over his body, down into the hair. It was a sin, a sin, but how could he resist? Oh, God… he prayed out loud. And simultaneously grasped his pisanello.
What happened then is easy to relate: he was drenched in icy water. But how did that feel? One moment you are in a riot of desire and temptation, the next you are waking up so hard and fast, so unable to comprehend what has happened that you may as well have been knocked out cold.
Freezing water. Buckets of it. Was it his father? Had he groaned too loud in his dream and brought father in? Was it the priest? Who? He was sitting in his bed, drenched, shivering, his manhoo
d limp in his hand. He let himself go, whimpering, and dared at last to look around. No one. There was no one in the room but himself, sitting in a soaking wet bed.
Buckets of icy water from heaven. Somewhere, angels were laughing.
How would he explain this to the family the next morning? How would he spend the rest of the night?
The next thing he knew, he was waking up in sunlight in a dry bed. The icy water had itself been a dream: a dream of waking up. Such dreams are powerful.
That was the story we heard, of the night in his youth when Girolamo Savonarola gave up poetry for God.
48
LORENZO SENDS FIVE MEN TO SAN MARCO
1491
AT A MEETING OF THE ACADEMY, WE HEARD THAT Savonarola was gathering disciples, men who would accept neither gifts nor alms but only their daily bread, who would dress like the poor, who would not seek office nor build houses. These men would have revelations from heaven and much learning – not the learning of philosophers and poets, but that of their own conscience and Holy Scripture.
Angelo’s lip curled in distaste. ‘Men who will shrivel from famine and go about in smelly old patched robes. I’ve seen them. They are dropping like flies at San Marco. I know none of you will listen to me, since I am only a poet and not a philosopher, let alone a prophet, but I am telling you to beware of that man.’
Bernardo Rucellai, Lorenzo’s brother-in-law, agreed and was concerned by Savonarola’s growing criticism of the Medici. ‘You cannot allow him to say just what he likes. He owes everything to you, Lorenzo, and he is going round the city calling you a tyrant. He is whipping up a rebellion. I’m afraid you are going to have to deal with it.’
‘What, trump up some charge so as to have him banished?’
‘If necessary.’
‘That’s the way of the tyrant which I am accused of being. Angelo, I am still waiting for that one sentence.’