of
Olivia
On the 19th of October, 1491, Christian reckoning
7
Outside the high vaulted windows rain swept over Fiorenza, pouring steadily
from low, purplish clouds that jostled through the sky on an east wind. Inside
the vast Chiesa di San Marco there was an uneasy silence. Every bench was filled
and there were people standing in the aisles along the wall. No one spoke, and
the wan light blurred their features so that they all seemed like dolls made by
the same carver. Incense flavored the air, and the sound of chanting announced
the coming of the Brothers of San Domenico.
The congregation shifted expectantly, and there was a rustling of clothes and
whispered words as the somber procession approached. The Brothers wore their
black habits with the hoods up, so that their white cassocks showed only at
their feet and wrists. One of their number had brought the Fiorenzeni to San
Marco, and that was Girolamo Savonarola.
A small, ancient organ played when the monks had finished their chant. The
music was sonorous, fatalistic. It joined with the rain in sorrow, reminding the
mortals gathered under the great vault that life was short and filled with error
and that death was long and the fires of hell burned eternally.
If the congregation could have dictated to the Brothers, they would have
skipped over the Mass entirely and listened only to the sermon. But that was not
permissible, and so they knelt and made their responses, each hoping that the
celebration would be short, unadorned and unaugmented so that they would be able
to hear the sermon they hungered for.
Just as the crowd began to grow restless, the celebration reached the sermon,
and the people settled in to listen.
The monk who mounted the steps to the oratory was quite surprisingly small,
hardly taller than a twelve-year-old child. He was thin from much fasting, which
carved out the planes of his face harshly and served to accent further his
lamentably large hooked nose and the large fleshy lips beneath. There was
nothing attractive about the man until he fixed his congregation with his
ferocious green eyes.
"It is said," he began in a deep, hard voice, "that when Job suffered for the
sake of his soul, God rewarded him with plenty for his faith. It is said that
God showed him His Glory, and Job knew how vile he was, and from that day he was
holy." He stared at the upturned faces, challenging any to contradict him.
"To learn this lesson from the Mighty Hand of God, Job had to lose
everything: his wife, his children, his land, his money, his home, the health of
his body. He was given nothing to succor him but his faith. And that faith was
rewarded, for he saw God in all His Power. Job bowed before the Awful Might of
God. As must all men, if there is a grain of piety in them. We should all fall
to our knees and confess our utter worthlessness, our unspeakable corruption. We
should beg God to forgive our sins, and the greatest sin would be daring to
address the Mercy Seat at all." He paused, and when he resumed his sermon, his
voice had dropped to one deep tolling note. "We have upon us the great sin of
Anger, yet we do not repent. There are those of you who long to thrust a dagger
into the heart of your neighbor, and you justify it saying that it is for honor
that you do this. What is your paltry honor, your name, when compared to the
Honor and Glorious Name of God?"
There was an answering sigh from the congregation, and some of the women
clenched their hands in their laps.
"Each day, you see tasks of goodness and charity not done, but you do
nothing, saying that it will be done later, or that it is better for others to
perform those acts, and you excuse it because you have children who need your
attention, or your wants are great this year.
But that is the great sin of Sloth, and for it you will toil in hell forever,
and fiends shall prod you to do there what you could not learn to do in this
life!" He raised his
Olivia
On the 19th of October, 1491, Christian reckoning
7
Outside the high vaulted windows rain swept over Fiorenza, pouring steadily
from low, purplish clouds that jostled through the sky on an east wind. Inside
the vast Chiesa di San Marco there was an uneasy silence. Every bench was filled
and there were people standing in the aisles along the wall. No one spoke, and
the wan light blurred their features so that they all seemed like dolls made by
the same carver. Incense flavored the air, and the sound of chanting announced
the coming of the Brothers of San Domenico.
The congregation shifted expectantly, and there was a rustling of clothes and
whispered words as the somber procession approached. The Brothers wore their
black habits with the hoods up, so that their white cassocks showed only at
their feet and wrists. One of their number had brought the Fiorenzeni to San
Marco, and that was Girolamo Savonarola.
A small, ancient organ played when the monks had finished their chant. The
music was sonorous, fatalistic. It joined with the rain in sorrow, reminding the
mortals gathered under the great vault that life was short and filled with error
and that death was long and the fires of hell burned eternally.
If the congregation could have dictated to the Brothers, they would have
skipped over the Mass entirely and listened only to the sermon. But that was not
permissible, and so they knelt and made their responses, each hoping that the
celebration would be short, unadorned and unaugmented so that they would be able
to hear the sermon they hungered for.
Just as the crowd began to grow restless, the celebration reached the sermon,
and the people settled in to listen.
The monk who mounted the steps to the oratory was quite surprisingly small,
hardly taller than a twelve-year-old child. He was thin from much fasting, which
carved out the planes of his face harshly and served to accent further his
lamentably large hooked nose and the large fleshy lips beneath. There was
nothing attractive about the man until he fixed his congregation with his
ferocious green eyes.
"It is said," he began in a deep, hard voice, "that when Job suffered for the
sake of his soul, God rewarded him with plenty for his faith. It is said that
God showed him His Glory, and Job knew how vile he was, and from that day he was
holy." He stared at the upturned faces, challenging any to contradict him.
"To learn this lesson from the Mighty Hand of God, Job had to lose
everything: his wife, his children, his land, his money, his home, the health of
his body. He was given nothing to succor him but his faith. And that faith was
rewarded, for he saw God in all His Power. Job bowed before the Awful Might of
God. As must all men, if there is a grain of piety in them. We should all fall
to our knees and confess our utter worthlessness, our unspeakable corruption. We
should beg God to forgive our sins, and the greatest sin would be daring to
address the Mercy Seat at all." He paused, and when he resumed his sermon, his
voice had dropped to one deep tolling note. "We have upon us the great sin of
Anger, yet we do not repent. There are those of you who long to thrust a dagger
into the heart of your neighbor, and you justify it saying that it is for honor
that you do this. What is your paltry honor, your name, when compared to the
Honor and Glorious Name of God?"
There was an answering sigh from the congregation, and some of the women
clenched their hands in their laps.
"Each day, you see tasks of goodness and charity not done, but you do
nothing, saying that it will be done later, or that it is better for others to
perform those acts, and you excuse it because you have children who need your
attention, or your wants are great this year.
But that is the great sin of Sloth, and for it you will toil in hell forever,
and fiends shall prod you to do there what you could not learn to do in this
life!" He raised his
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