by Linda Proud
Fra Girolamo threw up his hands to heaven and thanked God in a voice all could hear. He told the procession from L’Impruneta to return home: we were saved. And then Florence fell to its knees and believed in God. This was the power of Savonarola: through divine agency, he made things happen. Who could not believe in him?
We were surrounded by enemies and Florence was isolated, in fact as well as in spirit. Our city then seemed to be a single flame of goodness in an ocean of dark. People were beginning to call the Frate a saint; certainly he was a man courageous enough to stand up publicly for the good, to denounce the evil practices both of princes and the Church. If men truly desired good government, now was the time.
But we had enemies also within the city, the Bigi, who called for the return of the Medici, and the Arrabbiati, who wanted the Republic to be governed by the old families. Great names belonged to the latter – Ridolfi, Alberti, Tornabuoni, Rucellai, Spini – and their promise of old certainties might have been attractive but for the spawn of these noble families. Dressed in audacious hose and tight-waisted jackets, the Compagnacci, or ‘layabouts’, went about in bands, pushing aside anyone in their way, leaving behind them the scent of musk and ambergris. Their leader was Botticelli’s young neighbour, Doffo Spini, and his gappy teeth and pointed ears made him a figure of terror in the city. It was harmless enough, at first, when they did little more than amuse themselves by tripping a friar in passing or throwing stones at the faithful and calling them sheep. But then they suddenly grew more threatening and vicious. Some said it was because Savonarola had banned Car- nival, and the rich youth had no outlet for their exuberance and energy. Friars were kidnapped and held on ransom; services were disrupted by the release of caged rats; slogans were daubed on the walls of San Marco. But it was obvious that the fierce quarrels in the streets and the many stabbings were part of a campaign being organised by others: the Compagnacci were being used by their fathers to destroy the New Republic. Happily the rules on age kept them out of the Grand Council themselves but the behaviour of these young men disturbed Savonarola. In the refectory that night he preached privately to the brethren from Isaiah: And I will give children to be their princes, and babes shall rule over them. The child shall behave himself proudly against the ancient, and the base against the honour- able. Jerusalem is ruined, and Judah is fallen, because their tongue and their doings are against the Lord. Children are the oppressors, and women rule over them. What mean ye that ye beat my people to pieces, and grind the faces of the poor? saith the Lord God of hosts. Because the daughters of Zion are haughty, and walk with stretched forth necks and wanton eyes, walking and mincing as they go and making a tinkling with their feet, therefore the Lord will smite with a scab the crown of the head of the daughers of Zion. He will take away the bravery of their tinkling ornaments, and their cauls, and their round tires like the moon, the chains, and the bracelets, and the mufflers, the bonnets, and the ornaments of the legs, and the headbands, and the tablets, and the earrings, the rings and nose jewels, the changeable suits of apparel, and the mantles, and the wimples, and the crisping pins, the glasses, and the fine linen, and the hoods, and the veils. And it shall come to pass, that instead of sweet smell there shall be stink; and instead of a girdle a rent; and instead of well set hair baldness, and instead of a stomacher a girding of sackcloth, and burning instead of beauty.
Even after two years in the monastery, I was still accustomed to understand biblical texts metaphorically, but something in Savonarola’s tone and enthusiasm made my jaw fall open. Almost at once Fra Domenico was on his feet, arms raised, crying out that he had had a message from the Lord, that he was to convert the children.
The Piagnoni brought their young ones to Fra Domenico’s classes and, before very long, the children of very many citizens were attending. In what became known as ‘The Children’s Cloister’, natural high spirits were quickly calmed and disciplined. They went in noisy and came out quiet. Filippino Lippi sent both his son and his daughter to classes and on the day when Fra Domenico led a great procession through the city, I stood with my friend to watch his children pass by. Garbed in white, wearing garlands of laurel and olive and singing pretty hymns, they looked like little angels. Filippino was not the only parent with tears in his eyes as he looked on this wondrous transformation. The little ones carried baskets and the youngest and sweetest went to the crowds of onlookers to collect money for the poor. Dabbing at his eyes, Filippino said that he wished he’d been brought up so well. My guffaw, arrested by the memory that I was a pious Dominican, exploded as a snort.
‘What? Why are you laughing?’
My shoulders shook as I remembered how Filippino had resisted discipline.
‘Stop laughing!’ he said angrily, then turned to wave to his son who was now walking past, staggering under the weight of a giant candlestick.
It was announced that the Carnival of that year was to be a blazing sacrifice of vanities and a great bonfire of seven tiers was constructed in the Piazza della Signoria. The week before Lent, the children processed with their baskets again, but this time they were not asking for money. What they demanded of the grown-ups was that they surrender the chains, the mufflers, the bonnets and the tinkling ornaments. Amused, people gave up some old clothes and carnival masks. This was not enough. The children were sent out to knock on doors and confront people face to face, telling them to surrender their sin or face the wrath of the Lord. Now the baskets began to fill with more precious things, furs and jewels, wigs and cosmetics. It was still not enough. Convinced that people were hiding what they most valued, Fra Domenico told the children to report anything they saw or heard at home. Their duty and responsibility, he told them, was to the Lord, not to their parents. Now people had friars knocking on their doors, being very specific about what was to be surrendered. One evening Filippino Lippi received such a visit and was told to give up his chess set.
He came to the monastery and demanded to see me. ‘I want my chess set back!’ he shouted.
‘Filippino, I cannot help you.’
‘I want my children back! I want them to be naughty. I want them scampering like imps, their faces caked with filth and dried snot. Do you hear me? I want my children as they were!’
‘You cannot be serious.’
‘Serious? I am gravity itself. I don’t want any son of mine taught to betray his kin! You’re telling us that we’re oppressed by our women and our children. I’m telling you that nothing is quite so oppressive as a po-faced man in a white habit who thinks he knows best. What has happened to you? I want my friend back! I want everything back, as it was, in the old days. God take you all and give us back the Medici!’ He left abruptly, slamming the door behind him. The peace of the monastery swallowed his noise and a moment later it was as if it had never been.
The following day I had such a ‘visit’ myself. Fra Domenico came to the library to tell me cheerfully that all copies of Ovid and Boccaccio were to be added to the pyre, ‘by order of the Frate, God be praised!’
Horrified, I went to confront Savonarola. He listened calmly to what I had to say and assured me that he had given no such order.
My heart and breathing returned to normal. ‘I am sorry to have disturbed you, Frate. May I then refuse Fra Domenico’s request?’
Savonarola shook his head. ‘No, no, let us not upset our good brother.’ He asked me whether we had any duplicate printed versions of these books, and I said that we had, as well as some manuscript copies of inferior hand and full of errors.
‘Put them on the fire,’ said the Frate. ‘As for the rest, take them off the shelves and store them. Enthusiasm is a wonderful thing, but it does need to be curbed.’
When the procession from San Marco to the Piazza della Signoria started out behind the holy banner of the Crucifixion, I followed with a mule laden with a chest of books containing some corrupt and duplicate editions of Decameron and Amores. Just a few. The rest were obs
cure works of theology and superstitious hagiography which, in my view, do more to corrupt the minds of men than the pornography of the ancients. I waited until the flames had caught the pyre that rose high in seven tiers before, to gasps of astonishment and admiration from the crowd, I threw on the books. I stood back to watch the mighty heap of treasure burn. Much of it was vain fripperies, the sad stuff of women who think beauty can be applied; some of it was the tools of vice, the die, the cards, the cups of gambling, the boards – a chessboard with exquisitely carved individual pieces. There were paintings of an obscene kind and marble statues being reduced to lime. And then I saw something that made my heart stop, that made me want to spring into the flames and pluck it out, a painting of Venus, riding the waves on a scallop shell, her long, yellow hair flowing over her nakedness.
No!
I looked about wildly and saw Sandro Botticelli walking back into the crowd, having thrown on his offering. Reason spoke to me then, softly, comfortingly, telling me that the Venus was safe on the walls of Lorenzo di Pierfrancesco, that this was either a copy or a discarded, early version. Maybe. Perhaps so. But it was the symbol rather than the material object that was exploding in my soul. It was the symbol that was on fire, the image of beauty bubbling in the heat, the wood blackening, the image disappearing. I stood gazing at her, her fatal heat burning my face, and knew horror of a kind my spiritual father would neither understand nor approve.
My gaze roamed round the crowd until I saw the face I was suddenly searching for: Marsilio Ficino was looking not at the fire but at me. And what did he see? A hypocrite, no doubt. An erstwhile member of the Platonic Academy burning books.
93
THE DECEIVING DEMON
1497
IN THESE YEARS, WHEN HE WAS A CANON OF THE CATHEDRAL, Ficino resided in his town house, a tall, narrow building close to the Casa Vecchia. He was in his mid-sixties and, despite his lifelong infirmities, was surviving all his friends. His once golden hair had turned silver and his face was as creased as a screwed-up poem but although his eyes were growing a little cloudy, they still had the power to read souls.
Seeing me passing in the street below on the day after the bonfire, he called me in. ‘I presume those were not works of any great value I saw you throwing on the fire?’
I assured him that they were not. He shook his head. ‘I don’t know why I should be pleased to find you have become such an adept dissembler, but I am. Did the Medici put you in the monastery to be their eyes and ears?’
‘I’ve been sworn to secrecy.’
‘So they did. Was it Piero?’
I shook my head.
‘Cardinal Giovanni, then. Ah, I see. You are looking after the books.’ Ficino leaned forward and gazed at me, into my soul. ‘How good a Dominican are you? Can I trust you?’
‘Speak, Father. I am your Tommaso.’
‘Tell me everything you know about Savonarola. How do you find him at close-quarters? Is he a sincere man?’
I drew out a pamphlet in manuscript that I was taking to be printed by Miscomini. ‘Here is something he has written recently: The Triumph of the Cross. I think it will answer your questions.’
While Ficino was reading, I sat back and looked around. His desk, placed by a window, was like a shrine, an altar to wisdom. His books, his writing equipment, the magnifying lenses he wedged on his nose as he studied, everything had to it the purity of unwavering intention. Marsilio Ficino had never been thrown off course by chance. I looked at my old friend and master, bent over the words of Savonarola, pulling on his lower lip as he read. There was a scent in the room, a fragrance beyond the various pungent herbs he had been grinding in the mortar. They say that saints give off a divine aroma. So did Ficino. It was a scent that acted like a hand on your back, relaxing all the muscles, removing the cares, removing the world itself. To sit and breathe in Ficino’s study was enough: one wanted nothing else. The scent of roses, of jasmine, of heaven.
At last he raised his head. ‘Everything he says here is true. I have never seen the Christian faith so clearly set out, free of all dogma and intelligible to everyone.’
‘Quite. There is not a philosopher amongst us who is also a Christian who could find fault in this man.’
Ficino rubbed his face wearily. ‘Yet there is something wrong. This city which he calls the New Jerusalem has become a dangerous place, full of violent factions. Every night there is a murder and no one dares to go abroad alone. Now I hear that the Frate is proposing that prostitutes, gamblers and sodomites be tried and put to death. Is that the way of Jesus? There is failure in trade, failure in harvest, famine and contagion.’ He rocked gently back and forth, his brow creased by thought. ‘To judge by our senses, to judge by this pamphlet, we are being governed by a good man, and yet something is wrong. I do not understand.’
I told him about my continuing attempt to be both a Christian and a Platonist at once, without contradiction.
He smiled, knowing himself, as a canon of the cathedral, how difficult that was. ‘Do you succeed?’
‘Only when I am in the present moment.’
‘How often is that?’
‘Not very often,’ I admitted sheepishly.
He leant forwards and patted me on the hand. ‘At least it is sometimes – better than never. I always had hope in you, Tommaso.’
‘I have to keep quiet about my beliefs, of course.’
‘As one must. Strange, isn’t it, that we have to be circumspect only amongst the religious? No philosopher would condemn a man for being a Christian, or a Jew or a Muslim for that matter. That tells me that these men of religion are not true.’
‘Someone told me of a saint who surrendered every thought to God, every thought, including his own judgement as to what is right or wrong.’
Ficino shuddered. ‘The way of devotion is hard.’ He laughed suddenly. ‘But who wants to be a saint?’
‘Almost everyone in San Marco.’
‘Not least its Vicar General.’
‘Some of the friars are, well, strange and fanatical. It’s Fra Domenico who is converting the children and burning the books. And then there is Fra Silvestro.’ I told Ficino what I had seen when I had gone into Savonarola’s cell.
‘How do you interpret that event?’
‘I have heard rumours, whispers around the cloisters, that it is Silvestro who receives the visions which Savonarola delivers as his own from the pulpit. And now I have seen it with my own eyes. But does that matter? If it is the voice of God?’
‘That is the crux of it. Is it the voice of God? How can we tell? Demons pose as angels: it is their chief trick. There is even one deceiving demon who speaks as if it were the Holy Ghost, and only a wise man will know the difference. It would be easy to say that, through the power of demons, Savonarola is deceiving us.’
‘No, Father. I do not believe that. He is genuine.’
‘Ah, perhaps he is not knowingly deceiving us. Perhaps the deception begins with himself. Of course he is a true and sincere man – that’s what makes him so powerful – but it is the self- deception which makes him terrible.’ Suddenly Ficino’s eyes widened and he began to tremble. ‘Do you realise, as I now realise, who we are speaking about?’
I shook my head.
‘Poliziano, God rest his soul, was right. He was the only one of us to see Savonarola for what he is: the antichrist.’
‘But how can that be?’ I cried. ‘He has no mark of the beast on him. He keeps the commandments like no other.’
‘Do not expect to see the antichrist with ten horns and two heads, or the number six-six-six blazoned on his brow. Remember the words of St Matthew: we can only know him by his fruits. Look at this city: it is dying. The work of Cosimo and Lorenzo: destroyed. The Platonic Academy: meeting in secret. These children robed in white informing on their parents; mothers and fathers living in dread of their offspring. He is b
urning books. Burning books!’
‘Nothing of value –‘
‘Well, what is that if not deception?’
‘– and everything he has written in that pamphlet is true.’ Ficino glanced over it again. ‘It sounds true, but there is some- thing missing. He says it is his work to bring the kingdom here on earth. This is a mistake because, as I have striven to demonstrate all these years, the kingdom is already here. Only a philosopher will know that in his own experience, yet Savonarola denies philosophy and would ban it. I assure you that faith without reason is a bird with one wing, a bird that cannot fly. Poets, diviners, philosophers – they experience the ineffable in the mundane. The religious do not. They believe heaven is in the future and not of this world. Now is the moment, here, now. Now! Wake up, Tommaso!’
In my mind I was back in the monastery and looking for signs of the antichrist in Savonarola. I came back to myself. ‘I am here.’
‘Good. Only in the present moment is joy, eternity, immortality. Past and future – delusion. This is what Savonarola does not teach, because he does not know it. He teaches awareness of sin, and that is separation from God. The first, original sin – separation from God. It is the creed of hopelessness. By all means, do not sin, but if you do, abandon all thought of repentance and grace: know what you have done and do it no more. What Plato and the Platonists teach is unity, the true identity of the quintessence of all creatures with the One. What you think you are, the body, mind and nature, are sheaths which hide God. You are God. It is not a question of finding him, or uniting with him; it is a question of knowing who you are. The man who weaves down the street convinced he is the pope – what difference is there between him and you, who think you are Tommaso Maffei? It is all misidentification. Drop it. Be God. Savonarola would say this is heresy. I say it is the truth. Choose, Tommaso, choose now.’