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| Vanity | |
| By Amelia | ||||||||||||||||||||||||
| 04 December 2007 | ||||||||||||||||||||||||
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I wrote this story set in Florence in 1492, during the rise and fall of Savonarola. I wrote this after working on a thesis paper for a European History course on the topic. I've always wanted to write some historical fiction, and this is my first try. This is not my story. There isn’t much to tell about me in any case; I was a homely girl, born with a disfiguring purple birthmark that stretched across my face and neck like a bruise. My family saw me as a waste of money, a daughter who could never be married off, and the servants saw me as a pitiful creature. I spent most of my life at the window on the third floor of our palazzo, watching the people on the busy street below me. In my younger days, when the hours stretched out around me like the fine thread of my loom, I used to wish that I lived in a time of change, a time when faces meant nothing and actions meant everything. But as I said, this is not my story. This is the story of my two brothers: Marco and Giovanni. They were opposites, always. Marco, the eldest, was blonde and handsome. He used his irresistible charms on everyone. When we were children, he could coax our sharp old nurse out of an extra honey cake, and he was so clever that his tutor declared him one of the finest young minds of our age. I, however, managed to always find the biting end of his wit; he was cruel to me, perpetually disgusted by my existence. As Marco grew older, his charms fell instead on the influential young men and women of Florentine society. Giovanni always reminded me of the urchins I watched from my window. His eyes were dark and suspicious, his movements furtive. He was always jealous and spiteful of Marco. Knowing he would never be as handsome or intelligent as our older brother, Giovanni instead buried himself in scripture, finding his solace in the quiet of our private chapel and the whisper of parchment. He wrapped himself in piety as though it were a fine cloak, finer than any of Marco’s. Florence was a vain city, an unpredictable, churning sea where our fickle citizens held up and tore down political heroes. Our artists would challenge and glorify Christianity, depicting the holy Madonna in the latest fashions, all flesh and rapturous eyes, her milky skin glowing with divinity, or perhaps even a pagan goddess, rising from the sea, demure and radiant, but pagan none the less. Our clergy, even, was lustful in every sense of the word, equally so for flesh and for wealth. We were stagnant and decadent and entirely in love with ourselves. Surely we all dressed in our finest clothes and flocked to the San Marco Cathedral every Sunday, but our true God was not Christ; no, he was a man named Lorenzo de’ Medici. He was called “Lorenzo el Magnifico” and we adored him because he was a great patron of the arts. He commissioned thousands of paintings and statues a year, pouring money into libraries and the pockets of our artisan class. He was a true Florentine. He was Florence. So it’s easy to understand, then, why the death of our beloved God-on-earth was so shattering. I was sitting in my dim third-floor room that day in April, 1492. The air was thick and still around me in the low light as I squinted at my embroidery. I heard voices in the hall downstairs, low murmurs that, though the words were unclear, I could tell bore an ill message merely by the tone. Our maid, Alessandra, told me the news. Our beloved Lorenzo had finally succumbed to his illness, and during the night had passed away. She added with a whisper that he had asked the new San Marco preacher, Savonarola, to come to his deathbed and absolve him of his sins, but the holy man had refused. “But why?” I asked, bewildered at this bit of gossip. Lorenzo was a great man. Savonarola was but a lowly friar. “It’s said that the friar thinks his patron deserves hell.” “But… he is il Magnifico. What has he done wrong?” “Ah, Maria, he has done nothing wrong,” said the young woman, and went back to her cleaning. I knew that the death of our leader would change the city, but I didn’t expect it to change my life in any significant way. I would always just be the homely face in the third-floor window. As long as our palazzo stood, I would remain imprisoned and protected. I heard very little of the outside world, save what Alessandra told me while she cleaned. Sometimes I would overhear the servants murmuring or brief conversations below my window. I never expected to hear much about Savonarola again, but suddenly it seemed that he was all anyone talked about. “He is a prophet,” Giovanni told me, his dark eyes gleaming with reverence. “He hears the voice of God, and he was sent here to deliver this unworthy city from the fires of hell.” He said those last words with such conviction that I knew it would be fruitless to argue. Marco, always the critic, laughed and said, “He belongs in the theater. That ugly little friar is the best performer I’ve ever seen. He could turn a whore into a nun-” “Not that there’s any difference these days!” interjected Giovanni, glaring. “‘Oh, Harlot church!’” mocked Marco, with exaggerated piety. I guessed he was quoting one of Savonarola’s sermons, now wildly popular. “If he put half as much energy into praying for our salvation from that French king as he does pointing fingers at the clergy, we’d all be safe,” he snorted. “What French king?” I asked. Marco replied, “It’s all anyone in the streets is talking about. Messengers arrived yesterday- Charles VIII, the king of France, has invaded the north. He means to move south, slowly eating up all of Italy with his vast army.” “He was sent to scourge the land of sinners! This is the sword of God, descending on Florence just as Savonarola predicted!” cried Giovanni. Marco laughed. “If God’s messengers are a Frenchman and a raving madman, then I’d rather go to hell.” I blushed at my brother’s blasphemy, and Giovanni sucked his breath through his teeth. Narrowing his eyes, he warned, “The pious are wise enough to see the end coming. Only fools will refuse to repent for their sins.” Spring ripened, and soon the lusty heat of summer descended on our city. Upon the death of Lorenzo, the Medici reign had passed to his son, Piero. If there was one thing my brothers agreed on, it was the incompetence of Lorenzo’s heir. It seemed the entire city was buzzing with discontent. In the drunken heat, the restless masses fretted about the approaching French army. Piero, the pampered son, was too busy with feasts and masques to attend to matters of the state. And in the background, the impassioned religious fervor of Savonarola continually rang in the echoing San Marco Cathedral as he denounced the Medici as sacrilegious tyrants and urged Florence to seek salvation. More and more worried Florentines shuffled to the cathedral every Sunday to listen to the man who could bring tears to their eyes and fear to their hearts. They hung on his every word. “Behold, these hosts are led by the Lord! Oh Florence, the time for singing and dancing is over- now is the time for you to weep floods of tears for your sins!” While the rest of Florence panicked, Giovanni had never been more excited. He became a fanciulli, one of Savonarola’s followers. These boys patrolled the streets for gamblers or prostitutes to admonish. They knocked on the doors of wealthy homes, urging families to give up “vanities” such as jewelry, perfume, and playing cards. Giovanni lectured us constantly on the importance of prayer and piety. I responded with obedient silence whereas Marco responded with mockery. “Savonarola only condemns vanity because he himself is so hideous! Why, he’d love our Maria. Why don’t you join the fanciulli, sister? You’d be his favorite apprentice.” My hatred and shame simmered. I refused to meet Marco’s eyes. Summer withered into November, but the relentless heat still hung over our city, fueled by the restless citizens and the friar’s fervor. Piero had tried to bargain with Charles VIII, to exchange a few ports and fortifications for Florence’s safety. But our outraged city wanted no such bargaining. If the scourge were to come, then the pious would be spared. And everyone believed himself to be pious. Our proud city would make no deals with the devil. It was late November when the city’s discontent came to a head. A vendetta had been simmering, but when Piero learned of the attempt on his life, he fled the city. Savonarola was the leader of Florence in all but name, and his only obstacle was now gone. Giovanni was smug. Marco was livid. I’d never dreamed of freedom, but the wish was there, without words, like the motionless leaves at the bottom of a black lake. And now, at the whiff of Savonarola’s words, that undefined yearning surfaced and began to form. I had always been imprisoned by my family’s vanity. But now I saw an escape. Yet, as this new, strange hunger grew in me, I also felt fear. Our city was changing. Our lives were changing. Florence would never be the same again. Savonarola’s rise to power had been a gradual and an unexpected one. Who would guess that such a city as ours would have a friar as its leader? Perhaps it was because he wasn’t a politician that we never were cautious of his rise to power. Two years passed, in which everything seemed to intensify. Giovanni became ever more fanatic, rising in the ranks of the fanciulli. Marco came home later and later each night from parties; I could hear his heavy, drunken footfalls on the stairs. The rift between them ever widened. On November 18th, Charles VIII and his army marched into Florence. I couldn’t see them from my window, but I could hear a great crowd of people cheering. Would the French king conquer our city, killing the sinners and burning the houses? Or would he spare us and move south? I sat on the dusty floor of our empty palazzo with my legs tucked beneath my skirt, twisting my fingers through each other, listening to the faint cheering. Our palazzo never burned and none of my family was killed. Whether by Savonarola’s bargaining or by divine grace, Charles VIII decided to spare our city. At dinner that night, there were three French soldiers at our table. Listening to the conversation, I discovered that they were staying with us until the army moved on. They said that they were tired of campaigning and they missed their homes. To me, they didn’t sound as if they were sent by God. One of them, with dark liquid eyes, kept catching my gaze. I understood his curiosity. I had seen my own face in a mirror several times, although I usually avoided looking at my reflection. I know I appeared hideous to those who weren’t used to my presence. I felt a burning shame rise as I kept catching him staring at me. I wanted to leave his gaze: back to my silent room where I was the anonymous silhouette in the window. I wanted to be invisible again. I stared hard at my fork until I thought its sharp refractions would blind me. I looked up and dinner was over. Giovanni and Marco were following my parents out of the room. I stood to leave, and felt a hand on my wrist. I turned, and the Frenchman was standing behind me, a smile on his lips. He said nothing as he held the door for me. What did that smile mean? His fingers on my wrist? It was late. The room was dark, like the Frenchman’s eyes… like black water. I lay naked above my sheets, trying to let the damp air cool my skin. I could feel droplets of sweat in the dark, rolling down my neck and between my breasts. Suddenly there was a crash downstairs, followed by a muffled swear. Thieves. I heard footfalls on the stairs now. A creak. A breath. A shuffle. Hot panic flashed down into my toes, and I rolled silently off the bed, taking my sheet with me, wrapping it around my shoulders and letting it trail on the floor behind me like a cape. I padded softly to the door and pushed it open silently. There was no sign of a thief. Perhaps it was only Marco, coming home late from a party. I tiptoed down the hall. As I turned the corner, I saw a dark shape. Two dark shapes. My eyes adjusted, right in time to see my brother Marco, holding the hand of another young man, pulling him into his bedroom. I heard a stifled giggle and the door closed. Realization settled upon me gradually as I walked softly back to my room. I’d read the scriptural passages, of course… the story of Sodom. And as sheltered as I was, I had heard enough of Alessandra’s gossip that I knew what a sodomite was. They were common in Florence. But Marco… There was no doubt about what I had just seen. Breakfast was a quiet anarchy. I stared at Marco who calmly and innocently chewed on a piece of buttered bread, exchanging the usual derisive banter with Giovanni, and discussing politics with my father and the soldiers. My mother and I remained quiet. Nothing, apart from the three soldiers, was out of place. And yet, I gazed at my family as if through new eyes. My mother was the blond woman who never looked at me. My father was a wealthy cloth merchant. The soldiers were just men, a long way from home. Giovanni was a sinner. Marco was a sodomite. I was a blemish. “There will be a Burning of the Vanities tonight,” Giovanni was saying proudly. The table was silent. “It will be a great, symbolic bonfire, and all the pagan artwork, the lascivious clothing and jewelry, the extravagant furniture, will be thrown in. We will cleanse our city. Even Botticelli himself will throw in his paintings. Such is the power and truth of Savonarola.” The Frenchman caught my eye again, inquisitive. Feeling brave, I held his gaze, giving a brief and gentle shrug. “Botticelli will throw in his paintings because he is afraid. Not because he is inspired by the friar’s words,” argued Marco. Giovanni shook his head. “He fears damnation, as should you.” “He fears the strappado.” “I would advise you to be careful, brother,” hissed Giovanni. Marco laughed. I watched the sun sink behind the great dome of San Marco, throwing the last of its blood-red reflections against the underbellies of the clouds. My room grew steadily darker, but I didn’t want to light a candle. I liked the way my eyes never noticed the darkness, my pupils growing larger and larger, adjusting to the gently encroaching night. I could see the Piazza della Signoria from my window: the enormous pyre of broken furniture and wood, the great crowd that was shifting, shifting, shifting… Someone had lit the fire, and it grew quickly. Soon the flames stabbed high into the night air. I wanted to stand there on the cobblestones, feeling the heat on my face and the nervous bodies surrounding me. I wanted to hear noise and feel violence and change, break out of this dim, gentle cage on the third floor. I wanted to watch everything beautiful be destroyed, vanity burned. I found myself standing, walking across the room, hurrying down the stairs, and standing before the front door. This was my prison, and I’d never before set foot outside alone. But now I pretended I wasn’t afraid. I unlatched the door and swung it open, letting the cool night air raise gooseflesh under my sleeves. I stepped onto the cobblestones; fear, excitement, bliss, and a profound sadness all surged through me at once. I had changed vastly in that one moment. I hurried down narrow streets until I came to the Piazza della Signoria, where there mingled hundreds of shadowed bodies laden with vanities to lay on the fire. The atmosphere was eerie, almost primal. Suddenly, there were hands tight on my shoulders, and a voice cried in my ear, “Maria! What are you doing here?” I twisted, and there was Marco standing over me. The flickering red light made his cruel eyes seem insane. I wanted to escape, but he started pulling me back towards our palazzo. Back to my prison. If he brought me there now, I would never leave again. I would be punished, sent to a convent, never let out of sight. “Sodomite!” I screamed. He froze, staring at me. I screamed it again, trying to twist away from him. But he slapped me, hard, across the face. I was stunned more by surprise than by pain. “Maria! Marco! …What-?” Giovanni appeared out of the crowd, holding a broken jewelry box in his hand. “Sodomite!” I screamed again, pointing at Marco. A lifetime’s worth of resentment and crushed pride was escaping now. I felt tears streaming down my scarred cheeks, dripping off my jaw and chin. “Is this true?” asked Giovanni, dark eyes darting with what this meant, what this would gain him. Marco made no denial, only looked at me with a strange mingling of surprise and horror. “I saw him last night with his lover,” I spat. I wasn’t sure who had taken over my body. Marco’s hands left my shoulders as two other fanciulli pulled him away from me. He didn’t protest. He was still staring at me, a question hanging on his lips. Disgust in his eyes. They would torture him, probably, until he confessed. Then he would either be killed or, if Father supplied a bribe, released. His reputation and his body would be ruined by the cruel strappado. Suddenly, the crowd was roaring and surging with excitement. Savonarola himself had arrived, and everyone was trying to get closer to the great fire, closer to the holy man. I was pushed away from Giovanni, and I watched his face, contorted with red light and victory, get swallowed by the crowd. The last time I saw my brother, he was grinning hideously, shadows dancing across his face, his eyes glowing like a devil’s. I was closer to the fire now, and I could feel its heat on my face. I watched a beaked carnival mask succumb to the flames, feathers curling and blackening. Passion: the crowd was crazed by the words of the friar, and in the hellish light, dark bodies pushed me ever closer. I was crazed too, the energy of the horde was surging through me, and the heat, the frenzy... Sharp pain surprised me, and I realized too late that I had been shoved onto the pyre, my clothing now tangled amid furniture legs and artwork. I struggled to escape, but hell had enveloped me. My screams were lost within the roar of the crowd. I was surrounded by red and orange and black. Black as the Frenchman’s eyes. Black as Marco’s cell. Black as my sins. In my last moments, filled by the shining flames, I was completely illuminated. And I was beautiful.
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, although Charles VIII had marched off in November 1494?
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