The Rebirth of Venus

by Linda Proud

  My work recovering Poliziano was meeting success. Aided by Angelo’s student, Pietro Crinito, and a fervent admirer from Bologna called Alessandro Sarzi, I had now amassed most of his works. All that I missed was the material from the casino: his collected letters, the Account of the Pazzi Conspiracy, and the second Miscellanea. If they had been stolen by one of the friars and destroyed, I presumed it had not been with the knowledge of Savonarola.

  The city was changing, the monastery was changing, I was changing. It seemed that my work as a Medici spy was done: all that I had left was to become a real Christian. Did I stop being a Platonist? No. In my view, and that of Ficino, one does not have to choose between the two. Of course, Savonarola thought differently, but I was good at keeping quiet. Musticos – my lips were sealed in secrecy. When alone in study, I sought to continue Pico’s work to harmonise Christianity and Platonism, seeing if I could match terms and make them synonymous. But one day, looking at a beam of light pouring in through an upper window in the library, it suddenly occurred to me in that blinding way of the obvious that there was no need for this work. The two are in harmony. There are small matters of difference – well, perhaps quite large ones when it comes to transmigration of the soul or resurrection of the body – but in essence, there is harmony. I am living testament to the fact that one may be both. Or am I a walking hypocrite? Do I keep my contraries in separate compartments, never to meet or engage with each other? Perhaps. But I would find it a very torture of the spirit to have to choose between faith and reason and settle for one without the other. As I stared into that beam of light, I saw that it is not harmony that is required, but marriage, a full union of the two. But how? The answer flashed past my eyes like a kingfisher; dismissing it, I returned to my reading of the Early Fathers, wondering if it were possible for such a study to be made, to interpret Plato according to Christ, and Christ according to Plato, but as I reached out to turn a page I was overcome by nausea and lassitude. I could not focus on the words and any attempt to read only increased the nausea. It was as if a presence beside me were willing me to stop. Shall I give it a name? Yes, very well, it was Pico. And then the answer returned and I did not dismiss it. Within yourself. It was a cipher I understood and knew how to unlock. If I practised truth and goodness, and did not worry my head with any theological or philosophical debate; if I simply lived my life according to the Will of God, then any label such as ‘Platonist’ or ‘Christian’ was redundant. To be precise: any unity worth having is the unity of the soul with its Creator. From that moment on, I stopped studying like a scholar and read like a friar, taking words of truth not into my head but into my heart. Then the conflict stopped, and any sense of being duplicitous vanished. I was a Dominican who loved Plato – simple as that.

  Whenever Fra Domenico was in the library, I no longer hid my books of philosophy or my work on Poliziano. I no longer felt shifty in the presence of Savonarola, and he warmed to me more than previously. I also warmed to him. I understood now what he was trying to teach us: make it practical, make it practical. And so I looked on the changes coming about in the city with wonder. Yes, there was protest in some quarters, mostly from young men who are as fond of talking about goodness as chewing on gristle. They had absolutely no taste for sermons about chastity or public service and preferred instead to test the mettle (and the creed) of friars, roughing them up, pushing them around, pelting them with stones and horse dung. It was to be expected: the young, like the poor, are always with us. If it had not been like that in my youth it was because then we were only Christians on high days and holy days. Now it was to be each day of the week and every hour of each day. Naturally the young rebelled.

  The rest of the citizens, however, or at least a great majority of the people, threw themselves into Savonarola’s experiment. To signify the victory of the city over tyranny, the statue of Judith beheading Holofernes by Donatello was taken from the Palazzo de’ Medici and set up outside the Palazzo della Signoria, that towering monument to the Florentine Republic where those elected into the Great Council – now standing at a thousand men – frequently gathered in solemnity.

  Almost at once the teeth of dragons were sown amongst us, most artfully. In the old days, the all-powerful Council of Eight had been able to condemn a man to death with no right of appeal. Many murders had been committed under this legality. Now Savonarola proposed we introduce that right of appeal and that it should be heard not by the Great Council but by a limited body of men well-versed in the law. But the people now had a thirst for power and demanded that appeals be heard by the Council. And that, as the sowers of dragons’ teeth know, would be a ripe bed for the dissension and tumult requisite for yet another change in government. Thus those who privately sought a return to the old ways of rule by a powerful family agitated for this to be accepted, and it came to pass. We all know what grows from dragons’ teeth: strife.

  90

  GIANFRANCESCO

  1495

  THE COMPANY OF THE LIBRARY HAD NOT DISBANDED AND its work continued. The city had seized those books in the Medici library we had been unable to save. Now, staggering under debts to the French, the Signoria sought a vast loan, and offered the books as security. One day a man approached Savonarola on behalf of the Commune to make an offer. The agreement was that, should the loan not be repaid, the books would become our property. All we needed to do was to raise two thousand florins. ‘Ridiculous!’ Savonarola replied. Then we librarians moved in as part of a pincer action. The monastery owned vast tracts of land. The State would never repay the loan, we persuaded him, and with the sale of the land we would gain the books at a fraction of their value. Zenobio and I left it to Giorgio Antonio Vespucci to make the argument, for this elderly dignitary was much respected by Savonarola. I was surprised by how small a struggle Savonarola put up; he seemed easily convinced that it was better to own books than land. I detected a weakness in him and realised with a start that he loved books as much as we did. To the horror of some of the friars, he capitulated and made the deal with the Commune.

  The books came in; my days were filled with yet more inventories and catalogues; a year after the expulsion of the Medici, their library was put back together, with the exception of those books which had been stolen from the palazzo by the looters and by the French. I toured the shelves, stroking the books, enjoying a sense of fulfilment rare in anybody’s life. I wrote to Cardinal Giovanni to tell him the work was done. But when I told Zenobio this, he raised his eyebrows.

  ‘You think the books are safe now? What dream are you in, Tommaso?’

  My reply caught in my throat. He needed to say no more. I had been a fool to suppose Savonarola wanted a library. ‘He’s going to destroy them.’

  ‘The ultimate sacrifice.’

  ‘No, Zenobio, no, I don’t believe it.’

  ‘It may not be true, but then again it may. We cannot afford to relax our vigilance.’

  Cardinal Giovanni obviously agreed with him. In his congratulatory reply he said he looked forward to repossessing his family’s property in due course but trusted I would continue in my work as guardian. ‘You will be well rewarded when that glad day comes that the Medici return.’

  Many scholars were at work in the monastery. One day I was told that the nephew of Pico had moved into one of the cells off the main cloister and wanted his uncle’s papers to be delivered to him there. I went with two novices carrying the chest, expecting to find Alberto Pio, he who had been present at his uncle’s death and funeral. When I opened the door to usher in the chest, however, I found a gaunt man about my own age whom I vaguely recognised but could not place. Although he wore the white habit, he was a layman and not a friar. Busy arranging a desk for himself, he did not look up when he said where the chest should go.

  ‘May I ask why you require these papers?’

  ‘Who is it who is asking?’ he said, looking at me from under lowered brow.

  ‘Fra Tommaso,
the librarian. And you?’

  ‘Gianfrancesco Pico della Mirandola,’ he said. ‘Nephew of the Count of Concordia.’

  Then I remembered having met him, the eldest nephew, in Carpi all those years before, when we were on the run to France. When I reminded him of this, a muscle in his cheek flinched. ‘Ah yes, one of his secretaries. I remember. Had a certain antipathy to printing.’

  ‘I’ve grown older and wiser and have worked several years in a printing house.’

  This caught his interest, for his purpose, he said, was to put his uncle’s works into order for publication. I told him that I was doing the same for Poliziano.

  ‘Your uncle’s secretary, Cristoforo Casale, will be keen to help you in any way he can. He knows these papers better than anyone.’

  Gianfrancesco looked inside the chest. ‘I have no need of his help. Look, everything here is in a heap!’

  I did not find myself able to admit that that was my fault – the result of my rummaging.

  ‘Naturally my uncle had not expected to die so young. Thirty- two! Who would expect that? His studies were astonishing, and he had conceptions beyond the usual capacity of the human mind, but he was not the neatest or most orderly of men, as you can see. Neither was his secretary. To be frank, Fra Tommaso, what we have here are the scattered leaves of the Cumean Sibyl which I shall endeavour to collate and make readable. Presumably your own work on the papers of Poliziano is easier?’

  ‘In that respect, yes, he was very neat. But there is much that is missing. I’ve had the temerity to remove from this collection any letters between Pico and Poliziano for copying. I’ll return them in due course.’

  When I went back with the letters a few days later, I found Gianfrancesco labouring over his uncle’s refutation of astrology.

  ‘It is only in note form: the fruit of his many conversations with Fra Girolamo. The Frate is helping me to expand it into a full text.’

  ‘Then it will be Savonarola’s refutation of astrology?’

  ‘No, no, he insists, in his magnanimity, that it bears my uncle’s name as author. This work is vital in freeing the Florentines from the grip of superstition, and it will stand as a lasting memorial to Giovanni Pico della Mirandola.’

  ‘And everyone will hate him for it,’ I thought, miserably. What could I do? Shout at our guest? Challenge our Vicar General? I resolved to discuss the matter with Cristoforo as soon as I could. ‘There is so much to be done to bring Pico’s work to completion but I am content to devote my time to that purpose,’ said Gianfrancesco. ‘He was, after all, my beloved uncle and a very great man, and there is no one else in the family with the wit to understand his writings and intentions.’

  Was there a man alive with such a wit? If there was, it certainly wasn’t Gianfrancesco. In my own work on Poliziano I was merely gathering and putting into order. Poliziano had spent his life railing against those who made additions to texts, or removed lines they did not agree with, leaving a butchered version for posterity. I was hardly going to do it to him, and I’d rather that no one did it to Pico.

  I thought, as Gianfrancesco led me to think, that he had inherited his uncle’s papers, but that was not the case. When Cristoforo Casale was next in the library, and I told him what was happening, he paled. ‘Who gave him permission to do this work?’

  ‘I presume it was Savonarola.’

  ‘But it is not his to give! The will has been read and the books and papers have been bequeathed to Pico’s brother, Antonmaria. You know these Mirandolans, Tommaso: the family is at war with itself, and Gianfrancesco is from the enemy ranks.’

  ‘He says he was Pico’s favourite nephew and the only member of the family with any intellectual parity.’

  ‘Oh, that is ridiculous! Intellectual parity? Pico considered him a skink. Which cell is he in?’

  ‘Cristoforo, it would not be wise…’

  But Cristoforo had already left. A few moments later there was an unholy din in the main cloister, the voice of Gianfrancesco echoing, calling for help, saying he was being attacked. I rushed down to find the two scholars at each other’s throat like dogs. Other friars gathering stood back, frightened to intervene in such ferocity. It took Savonarola himself to save Gianfrancesco and pull Cristoforo off him. Wildly accusing us all of tampering with Pico’s works to suit our own ends – ‘Theft! Forgery!’ – Cristoforo left the monastery vowing never to return ‘to this den of iniquity!’

  ‘Choose your friends more wisely, Fra Tommaso,’ Savonarola said as we dispersed.

  ‘But he does have cause for concern,’ I protested.

  ‘He has none.’ He gazed at me full in the eyes. ‘You lack trust, brother. For all your reading, your understanding is small. I think perhaps you spend too much time with books and it would do you good to meet your fellow men, in all their want and need.’

  If this was a threat to send me out on pastoral work, he must have forgotten about it, for I continued the library, seemingly beyond anybody’s notice. I avoided Gianfrancesco. Whenever he requested books, I had someone else deliver them.

  91

  THE SOURCE OF PROPHECY

  1495

  SAN MARCO BECAME LIKE A SMALL, ENCLOSED TOWN, A CITY in miniature, with one whole cloister dedicated to painters and sculptors. Here one saw icons being painted, crucifixes carved, or the firing of reliefs in glazed terracotta by Luca della Robbia, who had recently joined the Order. The difference between here and the streets outside was that these artisans prayed for two hours or more before beginning work; and when the work was underway, it was not for their own profit. This was the heart of the New Jerusalem. Here was the nursery for a new civilisation.

  Savonarola toured the cloisters each day, encouraging the brethren and taking an interest in what they were doing. With him always like a pair of wings were Fra Domenico and Fra Silvestro. Fra Domenico wore a perpetual smile and walked with his hands clasped gladly at his breast, while Fra Silvestro, grey and spectral, looked on the world with sorrow. We scholars called them Democritus and Heraclitus, the laugher and the weeper.

  Fra Silvestro was a sleep-walker. Many had met him in the cloisters at night, wafting like a ghost with his eyes rolled up in his head, but I only knew him as a tall man of noble bearing. Around midwinter time, however, I went to Savonarola’s cell with some documents for his signature and walked in to find the Frate on his knees with Silvestro’s hands outstretched on his bare head. Silvestro, his face upturned and his eyes closed, was juddering as if possessed by some strong force, and he was speaking of wind and sinking ships. I was no jelly-boned novice, but I was shaken and backed quietly out of the cell. This was something I should not have seen.

  92

  THE BURNING OF BEAUTY

  1497

  NEITHER THE MEDICI NOR THE FRENCH HAD GONE QUIETLY: central Italy had been left in turmoil. Florentine forces were besieging Pisa, desperate to regain the seaport which Piero had so foolishly surrendered to Charles. The Venetians and Milanese sought to cut us off from our only remaining seaport, Livorno, and bring Florentine trade and commerce to a standstill. Then the harvest failed, leaving us without grain. Those Florentines abroad in foreign lands worked to save us, especially those merchants who were in France. We heard that they had acquired a fleet of ships and filled them with corn and wheat, that the fleet was leaving Marseilles to arrive at Livorno within the week. It was vital that we keep the road open.

  Under Fra Girolamo’s direction we prayed to God that the soldiers defending the road to Livorno would hold out, but then we heard that the fleet had been lost in a storm. Fra Girolamo ordered the holy image of the Virgin, kept in the village of L’Impruneta, to be brought into the city. This statue, which had performed many miracles, was only called for in the direst times. Going to meet it, all friars walked in the train of Fra Girolamo, going slowly through the streets, our heads lowered, singing lauds, beautiful lauds newly composed wit
h fine words. Every now and then I peeked from under my cowl and saw a city degraded by poverty and famine. With everyone who could walk joining the ever-lengthening procession, the streets were empty except for the starving and homeless huddled exhausted in alleys.

  ‘Look on them,’ said the friar beside me. ‘Look on them and weep, you who spent what wealth we had on books!’

  I was used to such hostility from those thin, dim friars who had as the eleventh commandment, Thou shalt not study. How often they chastised me for my part in buying the Medici books from the state. I changed my place so that I walked with someone else. A gang of bravos on the balcony of the Palazzo Spini jeered at us. ‘He doesn’t cure our troubles,’ one shouted, jabbing a finger at Savonarola. ‘He causes them!’ A stream of piss arched in the air and hit the friar who had scolded me; God forgive me, I was gratified, but hid my smile beneath my cowl.

  As we reached the river, we could see in the distance the incoming procession crossing the Ponte Vecchio, led by the holy image held high on a litter. At that very moment we also saw a messenger galloping over the Ponte Santa Trinità, waving an olive branch. The procession halted. A cry of exaltation came from the front and within seconds we at the back had heard: not all the ships from Marseilles had been lost. The libeccio, the south-east wind, had blown some of them to Livorno, so fast that the enemy did not see them coming. Grain was on its way.