Of Swans and Swine
Chapter 6; Part 2
Pietro was satisfied. He had exploited into the weakness of all great men; their vanity. Erasmus wanted to hear more praise; the trick was to give it to him whilst probing for the truth.
“I have read your Encomium Moriae with great interest…”
“Ah, my Praise of Folly and what did you think? But be careful, seven editions attest to its popularity.”
“I found it amusing and perceptive in all secular matters but if you don’t mind my saying so, perhaps unjust in its implicit criticism of the Church and its leaders.”
Erasmus gave a hearty laugh and the friar knew that his own directness and honesty might pay dividends. The man was in the mood for an argument and a lusty discussion could lead to indiscretions later.
“Criticism of the Church; what can you mean Pietro? Did you discern criticism in those poor words? Perhaps the Church’s representative is a touch over-sensitive on this issue.”
The friar reassessed his options, as it was clear that Erasmus was fully aware of his role in this discussion and probably suspected his motives too.
“I think a blind dog could see the criticism implicit in your book and I don’t say that I disagree with all of your observations but maybe the exaggeration of the brilliant satirist leads to over emphasis and dare I say it, over-simplification. I would venture to add that the Humanist movement here in the North perhaps sees things in a different light. Artists, writers and philosophers in my homeland have been driven to study Classical antiquity and explore man’s supposed capacity for rational choice based on the enormous inspiration provided by the works around them. They suppose that Humanism leads to more dignified and worthy humans. Here, on the other hand, are very few Classical sources of inspiration, so the emphasis is laid on a supposed need for reform in the Church itself. People here are not only physically distanced from Rome but are persuaded by malicious tongues that Rome itself has strayed too far from traditional Christian values. Propaganda is far easier to dissipate if the source of the dispute is far away.”
Erasmus leaned forward, suddenly alert to the nature of his guest’s intelligence. His smile faded and his eyebrows knitted as he realised that he was being led into potentially awkward territory. This was no ordinary Friar, this was a scholar, maybe even an Inquisitor investigating seditious thought; there was no more dangerous animal on this earth and he determined to be on his guard. What was Grimani thinking? He had trusted the cardinal as a friend, even an ally in the highest echelons of the Church and yet he had sent this man to probe. Why? Grimani could have no illusions about Erasmus and knew that whatever criticism was levelled, it was done for the benefit of the Church. He remained loyal to Rome and sought change from within not from without; surely Grimani could not be in doubt over that? Was his sometimes bitter correspondence with Luther not public knowledge?
Was this then a rogue priest seeking his own ends? If so, then he could be dealt with very easily with a few well-chosen words. On the other hand, it was possible that Pietro was genuinely interested in a discussion and that his views emanated from his own heart. Was that possible? Were these signs of paranoia? Looking for enemies where enemies didn’t exist? Erasmus prided himself in his ability to read a man’s face and Fra Pietro seemed to him honest, if a little fervent. He couldn’t spot any deceit in his expression. The man displayed child-like enthusiasm at the prospect of a discussion and that was surely not surprising considering his own widespread fame. Maybe it would be amusing to discuss theology with an intelligent priest for a while. It was not so often that he was able to converse with the actual perpetrators of God’s word; those who actually came into contact with the people and were not closeted in luxury for their own safety. First however, a little probing.
“So tell me Pietro, what adventures have you met in your recent travels? Or has your journey been uneventful? I find that travelling brings me into contact with so many of God’s creations that I can only despair at my smallness in the universe.”
The friar had no intention of relating the more disturbing events of the last weeks; that might suggest weaknesses and bring his faith into doubt but he did tell in some detail what had happened the previous day by the river. There was a possibility that Erasmus could cast some light on the identity of the arrogant noble and thus give Pietro information that could lead to some sort of satisfactory revenge.
Erasmus listened carefully, his hands clasped together as if in deep contemplation and after a deliberate pause, he responded.
“Ah, folly; joyous foolishness; you know of course of my acquaintance with that of which we are all guilty; you have read my book. Were you not witness to precisely that, in its purest form? You say that it was a group of demented souls? Are they not entitled to the exuberance of folly because they know no better?”
“Sin is sin,” the priest grumbled, “And the greatest sins were perpetrated by their leader, a man whose moral depravity leads him to take advantage of those in his charge. His duty is clear; he must lead those souls onto the right path, a righteous path, until God chooses to reclaim them into the fold. Instead, he fornicates with them; elicits moneys for their care and prospers on the backs of their misery. Folly is an excuse, a reason to ignore laziness at best and the acceptance of sinful practices at worst, nothing more.”
“So the church would say and I accept that the rules are clear. Some would even say that the demented are in that state because they have been punished by God for their sins.”
Pietro interrupted,
“That is so, how can you suggest otherwise?”
“I don’t suggest otherwise but what do you suggest; that they all be burned at the stake for they are already lost to God? They live amongst us and those harsh words ignore the reality of the situation. Where is your compassion Pietro? Are the rules of the true Church to be followed to the letter above the basic Christian premise of compassion?”
Whether it was the wine, or the comforting warmth of the burning logs that crackled and spat in the grate, Pietro almost missed his opportunity. Just in time he realised that Erasmus had strayed onto dangerous ground. He needed to choose his words carefully. He had been led to believe that behind the literary façade and the pretensions of absolute loyalty to Rome, Erasmus had serious doubts about almost every article of the Catholic faith; the mass, confession, the primacy of the Apostolic See, clerical celibacy, fasting, transubstantiation and abstinence. He also seemed to scoff at the invocation of the saints, reverence of relics and prayers to Mary. If all this were true, such an influential man was a substantial threat to the Church and more dangerous than the most open heretic. If that were the case then Pietro couldn’t understand how Erasmus had accumulated such influential friends. Grimani was not the only one who would not hear a bad word said about the man, the Pope himself was counted as an admirer and apparently had no doubts as to his loyalty. He had even offered to make him a cardinal though the offer had been refused, a cause for suspicion in itself. Pietro’s other employers however, held more guarded views and regarded Erasmus with the utmost wariness. Before he had left Venice, he had read fifty four pages of vehement attack on Erasmus’ blasphemies and impieties, written in Rome by Diego Lopez Zuniga. They were very convincing, thus it was Pietro’s task to confirm or deny certain key doubts.
“Are you saying that the rules of the Church should be ignored when it is less convenient to apply them? Everything is very clear; it is our duty to expose sin wherever it appears. Mental infirmity is no excuse; we cannot choose which souls are deserving of salvation, only God can do that. It remains for us to deliver those souls for judgement after having done our utmost to lead them along the true path according to the rules of the Church. The deranged are clearly beyond help and despite the fact that they live on the earth are more than ready either for God’s grace or the fires of Hell.”
Erasmus too was alerted to the fact that he was being seduced towards careless words and although it was tempting to tease and confuse this rigid priest with controversial argument, he was very aware of the consequences. He was tired and ready for bed. He faced a long journey over the next few days, in what looked like inclement weather. What had seemed to be a way of passing a few pleasurable hours in discussion had now become a chore and a risky one at that. This priest was almost certainly the latest of many sent to trap him into indiscretion. Why did they bother? His writings were the mirror to his soul and his intellect and only a fool would fail to interpret them as they were intended. Fortunately, there were many fools in the higher echelons of the Church and interpretation was just that and not proof of heresy. His life was dedicated to playing intellectual games with Rome; did they imagine that the fumbling questions of a single priest could lead him to confession of heresy? Oh how he longed to be settled once more in Basle; life was much more comfortable and there, he was surrounded by many like-minded thinkers. He could write and research more or less uninterrupted. It was time to end this untimely meeting but before that, he couldn’t resist an answer to Pietro’s unsubtle accusation.
“Open your eyes Pietro. Who amongst us ignore the rules of the Church more than the priests and monks themselves; by which of course, I make no reference to yourself?”
He took pleasure in Pietro’s frown and continued before he could be interrupted.
“Didn’t you refer to a monk and a nun in your tale of yesterday’s unfortunate encounter? I don’t know of this knight or nobleman by the way; there are so many of these types roaming the countryside. I suspect he may even be a merchant disguising himself as someone better. Whenever it is necessary these men will lie, perjure themselves, steal and cheat yet are respected by their fellows because of their apparent wealth. Hypocrisy can hold its own irony don’t you think? And the greatest irony is when they have flattering clerics in tow; scoundrels who refer to them as Right Honourable in public in order to scavenge what scraps fall their way. It seems to me that you came across precisely such a group, wherein some were unwittingly led to folly and others to deliberate sinfulness. I despise those orders that allow their illiterate followers to roam the land in the name of God. Did you know that many here consider it ill fortune to cross the path of a monk, such is their bad name? I am not really surprised that you were treated so roughly. Most of your brethren capitalise on their poverty by whining for food and alms from door to door. They are little more than beggars yet they purport to be enacting the lives of the apostles by demonstrating their poverty. Some, as I have said, attach themselves to merchants and live vicariously from those people’s fortune. It is easily done. A fake relic, or an indulgence from Rome will buy them entry into most circles. The two that you met yesterday are undoubtedly of the same ilk. The hypocrisy is self-evident and yet to hear them preach, the slightest slip by one of their parishioners is considered sacrilege; everything must be done according to the rules despite the fact that they themselves break them at every turn. They despise literature, partly because they can’t read and partly because everything they need is prescribed in great detail by the Church; it is an absurd situation Pietro but you must know this. I can’t be telling you anything you are not fully aware of. The Church must root out the corruption within or it sets a poor example to the rest of us; surely you agree?”
“I am aware of your views master Erasmus, they are plainly set out in your Praise of Folly and I can tell you that the Church is doing all it can to eradicate the rogue elements within its ranks but the Church must be allowed to do its work unfettered by criticism of things of which it is already aware. That sort of complaining is counter productive. For every sinful cleric, there are a thousand who are righteous. The greater good is always striven for yet for the sins of the few, the fabric of the church itself comes under attack; a situation I would contend is hardly fair. Clever men such as Luther take advantage of that popular discontent fed by grumblings from all and sundry and use them to promulgate sedition and heresy. The Church can police itself and will do ruthlessly from now on and I’m sure it has your support in rooting out the Devil’s supporters.”
The atmosphere in the room was filled with things unsaid; accusations and retorts and hidden intent. Both men were weary and both knew that this could go on for hours without clear advantage to either side. Pietro felt he knew his opponent well enough to realise that the task was too great for one man. Erasmus may one day face the combined talents of an Inquisition court, where skilled men could deliver unanswerable arguments. If that failed, there were always other methods to establish a man’s guilt or innocence. Erasmus was clearly everything that he had suspected but here in this house, on this evening, there was little to be gained by prolonging an intellectual debate that would produce no winner.
Erasmus himself had already decided to terminate the meeting.
“You may be right but I feel the Church has nothing to fear from self-examination and as you say, it is clearly in the process of doing exactly that. You may not know it Pietro but today, the 28th of October, is my birthday and I was celebrating the occasion with friends before we met. You will understand therefore that I am somewhat weary. The day after tomorrow, we depart once more for Basle and that will be taxing to say the least so I hope you will forgive me if I retire now for the night. When you are ready, Gerrit will show you to your room. It will be somewhat basic I’m afraid, as everything has been packed up for the journey but you will be assured of a warm bed at least.”
With that, he grasped Pietro’s hand relatively warmly and half turned to go.
“Oh, by the way, if you are interested, I can provide you with an introduction to visit the gallery of Count Henry of Nassau. I am not sure if his lordship is in residence. I think he may be dispensing advice to the Emperor somewhere but you may get the chance to inspect a panel by Jeroen Bosch. ‘The Garden of Earthly Delights’ hangs there and it is an extraordinary work. If you wish to know more about Bosch, then you must surely visit this painting, it may provide you with some insight. You may also wish to know that the regent herself is an admirer of Bosch. I don’t fully understand it but have always admired the family’s ability to promote his work in the highest circles. I, myself, will be portrayed by Hans Holbein very soon, something I regard as an honour and reward for my poor efforts on this earth. Oh and finally, please give my warmest regards to Grimani and tell him I will write to him from Basle, with of course reference to your welcome visit and now I must retire, my eyes are closing as I speak.”
The loaded references to his exalted status and influential friends, plus the hint that Grimani would be left in no doubt as to Erasmus’ opinions of his envoy, were not lost on Fra Pietro and he could only bow respectfully as Erasmus left the room. He sat for a few minutes, drank one more glass of wine and reflected that the interview had been cut short rather sooner than he had hoped. When the manservant entered, he informed him that he would expect a letter of introduction to the palace here in Brussels before he left. The idea of viewing a Bosch panel was indeed attractive and Pietro was certainly curious. He had heard various rumours about the painter’s works and was keen to see if evidence of heresy could be seen first hand.
As he knelt in prayer before climbing into bed, Pietro asked God to give him more insight into the workings of clever minds. If he was to do God’s work, he needed to be more incisive in his investigations. Erasmus had given him very little that he didn’t already know, though the fact that the discussion had been abruptly terminated was a promising sign that the great man had been uncomfortable. He regretted that he hadn’t had the time to explore Erasmus’ outwardly stormy relationship with Luther. Naturally, any seditionist of Erasmus’ status and intellect would be suspicious of others questioning his motives but Pietro berated himself for not being subtle or patient enough. His approach and persona as an interested priest in the service of a great cardinal would need to be more convincing. Erasmus had clearly appreciated the dual nature of his visit.
Pietro was satisfied. He had exploited into the weakness of all great men; their vanity. Erasmus wanted to hear more praise; the trick was to give it to him whilst probing for the truth.
“I have read your Encomium Moriae with great interest…”
“Ah, my Praise of Folly and what did you think? But be careful, seven editions attest to its popularity.”
“I found it amusing and perceptive in all secular matters but if you don’t mind my saying so, perhaps unjust in its implicit criticism of the Church and its leaders.”
Erasmus gave a hearty laugh and the friar knew that his own directness and honesty might pay dividends. The man was in the mood for an argument and a lusty discussion could lead to indiscretions later.
“Criticism of the Church; what can you mean Pietro? Did you discern criticism in those poor words? Perhaps the Church’s representative is a touch over-sensitive on this issue.”
The friar reassessed his options, as it was clear that Erasmus was fully aware of his role in this discussion and probably suspected his motives too.
“I think a blind dog could see the criticism implicit in your book and I don’t say that I disagree with all of your observations but maybe the exaggeration of the brilliant satirist leads to over emphasis and dare I say it, over-simplification. I would venture to add that the Humanist movement here in the North perhaps sees things in a different light. Artists, writers and philosophers in my homeland have been driven to study Classical antiquity and explore man’s supposed capacity for rational choice based on the enormous inspiration provided by the works around them. They suppose that Humanism leads to more dignified and worthy humans. Here, on the other hand, are very few Classical sources of inspiration, so the emphasis is laid on a supposed need for reform in the Church itself. People here are not only physically distanced from Rome but are persuaded by malicious tongues that Rome itself has strayed too far from traditional Christian values. Propaganda is far easier to dissipate if the source of the dispute is far away.”
Erasmus leaned forward, suddenly alert to the nature of his guest’s intelligence. His smile faded and his eyebrows knitted as he realised that he was being led into potentially awkward territory. This was no ordinary Friar, this was a scholar, maybe even an Inquisitor investigating seditious thought; there was no more dangerous animal on this earth and he determined to be on his guard. What was Grimani thinking? He had trusted the cardinal as a friend, even an ally in the highest echelons of the Church and yet he had sent this man to probe. Why? Grimani could have no illusions about Erasmus and knew that whatever criticism was levelled, it was done for the benefit of the Church. He remained loyal to Rome and sought change from within not from without; surely Grimani could not be in doubt over that? Was his sometimes bitter correspondence with Luther not public knowledge?
Was this then a rogue priest seeking his own ends? If so, then he could be dealt with very easily with a few well-chosen words. On the other hand, it was possible that Pietro was genuinely interested in a discussion and that his views emanated from his own heart. Was that possible? Were these signs of paranoia? Looking for enemies where enemies didn’t exist? Erasmus prided himself in his ability to read a man’s face and Fra Pietro seemed to him honest, if a little fervent. He couldn’t spot any deceit in his expression. The man displayed child-like enthusiasm at the prospect of a discussion and that was surely not surprising considering his own widespread fame. Maybe it would be amusing to discuss theology with an intelligent priest for a while. It was not so often that he was able to converse with the actual perpetrators of God’s word; those who actually came into contact with the people and were not closeted in luxury for their own safety. First however, a little probing.
“So tell me Pietro, what adventures have you met in your recent travels? Or has your journey been uneventful? I find that travelling brings me into contact with so many of God’s creations that I can only despair at my smallness in the universe.”
The friar had no intention of relating the more disturbing events of the last weeks; that might suggest weaknesses and bring his faith into doubt but he did tell in some detail what had happened the previous day by the river. There was a possibility that Erasmus could cast some light on the identity of the arrogant noble and thus give Pietro information that could lead to some sort of satisfactory revenge.
Erasmus listened carefully, his hands clasped together as if in deep contemplation and after a deliberate pause, he responded.
“Ah, folly; joyous foolishness; you know of course of my acquaintance with that of which we are all guilty; you have read my book. Were you not witness to precisely that, in its purest form? You say that it was a group of demented souls? Are they not entitled to the exuberance of folly because they know no better?”
“Sin is sin,” the priest grumbled, “And the greatest sins were perpetrated by their leader, a man whose moral depravity leads him to take advantage of those in his charge. His duty is clear; he must lead those souls onto the right path, a righteous path, until God chooses to reclaim them into the fold. Instead, he fornicates with them; elicits moneys for their care and prospers on the backs of their misery. Folly is an excuse, a reason to ignore laziness at best and the acceptance of sinful practices at worst, nothing more.”
“So the church would say and I accept that the rules are clear. Some would even say that the demented are in that state because they have been punished by God for their sins.”
Pietro interrupted,
“That is so, how can you suggest otherwise?”
“I don’t suggest otherwise but what do you suggest; that they all be burned at the stake for they are already lost to God? They live amongst us and those harsh words ignore the reality of the situation. Where is your compassion Pietro? Are the rules of the true Church to be followed to the letter above the basic Christian premise of compassion?”
Whether it was the wine, or the comforting warmth of the burning logs that crackled and spat in the grate, Pietro almost missed his opportunity. Just in time he realised that Erasmus had strayed onto dangerous ground. He needed to choose his words carefully. He had been led to believe that behind the literary façade and the pretensions of absolute loyalty to Rome, Erasmus had serious doubts about almost every article of the Catholic faith; the mass, confession, the primacy of the Apostolic See, clerical celibacy, fasting, transubstantiation and abstinence. He also seemed to scoff at the invocation of the saints, reverence of relics and prayers to Mary. If all this were true, such an influential man was a substantial threat to the Church and more dangerous than the most open heretic. If that were the case then Pietro couldn’t understand how Erasmus had accumulated such influential friends. Grimani was not the only one who would not hear a bad word said about the man, the Pope himself was counted as an admirer and apparently had no doubts as to his loyalty. He had even offered to make him a cardinal though the offer had been refused, a cause for suspicion in itself. Pietro’s other employers however, held more guarded views and regarded Erasmus with the utmost wariness. Before he had left Venice, he had read fifty four pages of vehement attack on Erasmus’ blasphemies and impieties, written in Rome by Diego Lopez Zuniga. They were very convincing, thus it was Pietro’s task to confirm or deny certain key doubts.
“Are you saying that the rules of the Church should be ignored when it is less convenient to apply them? Everything is very clear; it is our duty to expose sin wherever it appears. Mental infirmity is no excuse; we cannot choose which souls are deserving of salvation, only God can do that. It remains for us to deliver those souls for judgement after having done our utmost to lead them along the true path according to the rules of the Church. The deranged are clearly beyond help and despite the fact that they live on the earth are more than ready either for God’s grace or the fires of Hell.”
Erasmus too was alerted to the fact that he was being seduced towards careless words and although it was tempting to tease and confuse this rigid priest with controversial argument, he was very aware of the consequences. He was tired and ready for bed. He faced a long journey over the next few days, in what looked like inclement weather. What had seemed to be a way of passing a few pleasurable hours in discussion had now become a chore and a risky one at that. This priest was almost certainly the latest of many sent to trap him into indiscretion. Why did they bother? His writings were the mirror to his soul and his intellect and only a fool would fail to interpret them as they were intended. Fortunately, there were many fools in the higher echelons of the Church and interpretation was just that and not proof of heresy. His life was dedicated to playing intellectual games with Rome; did they imagine that the fumbling questions of a single priest could lead him to confession of heresy? Oh how he longed to be settled once more in Basle; life was much more comfortable and there, he was surrounded by many like-minded thinkers. He could write and research more or less uninterrupted. It was time to end this untimely meeting but before that, he couldn’t resist an answer to Pietro’s unsubtle accusation.
“Open your eyes Pietro. Who amongst us ignore the rules of the Church more than the priests and monks themselves; by which of course, I make no reference to yourself?”
He took pleasure in Pietro’s frown and continued before he could be interrupted.
“Didn’t you refer to a monk and a nun in your tale of yesterday’s unfortunate encounter? I don’t know of this knight or nobleman by the way; there are so many of these types roaming the countryside. I suspect he may even be a merchant disguising himself as someone better. Whenever it is necessary these men will lie, perjure themselves, steal and cheat yet are respected by their fellows because of their apparent wealth. Hypocrisy can hold its own irony don’t you think? And the greatest irony is when they have flattering clerics in tow; scoundrels who refer to them as Right Honourable in public in order to scavenge what scraps fall their way. It seems to me that you came across precisely such a group, wherein some were unwittingly led to folly and others to deliberate sinfulness. I despise those orders that allow their illiterate followers to roam the land in the name of God. Did you know that many here consider it ill fortune to cross the path of a monk, such is their bad name? I am not really surprised that you were treated so roughly. Most of your brethren capitalise on their poverty by whining for food and alms from door to door. They are little more than beggars yet they purport to be enacting the lives of the apostles by demonstrating their poverty. Some, as I have said, attach themselves to merchants and live vicariously from those people’s fortune. It is easily done. A fake relic, or an indulgence from Rome will buy them entry into most circles. The two that you met yesterday are undoubtedly of the same ilk. The hypocrisy is self-evident and yet to hear them preach, the slightest slip by one of their parishioners is considered sacrilege; everything must be done according to the rules despite the fact that they themselves break them at every turn. They despise literature, partly because they can’t read and partly because everything they need is prescribed in great detail by the Church; it is an absurd situation Pietro but you must know this. I can’t be telling you anything you are not fully aware of. The Church must root out the corruption within or it sets a poor example to the rest of us; surely you agree?”
“I am aware of your views master Erasmus, they are plainly set out in your Praise of Folly and I can tell you that the Church is doing all it can to eradicate the rogue elements within its ranks but the Church must be allowed to do its work unfettered by criticism of things of which it is already aware. That sort of complaining is counter productive. For every sinful cleric, there are a thousand who are righteous. The greater good is always striven for yet for the sins of the few, the fabric of the church itself comes under attack; a situation I would contend is hardly fair. Clever men such as Luther take advantage of that popular discontent fed by grumblings from all and sundry and use them to promulgate sedition and heresy. The Church can police itself and will do ruthlessly from now on and I’m sure it has your support in rooting out the Devil’s supporters.”
The atmosphere in the room was filled with things unsaid; accusations and retorts and hidden intent. Both men were weary and both knew that this could go on for hours without clear advantage to either side. Pietro felt he knew his opponent well enough to realise that the task was too great for one man. Erasmus may one day face the combined talents of an Inquisition court, where skilled men could deliver unanswerable arguments. If that failed, there were always other methods to establish a man’s guilt or innocence. Erasmus was clearly everything that he had suspected but here in this house, on this evening, there was little to be gained by prolonging an intellectual debate that would produce no winner.
Erasmus himself had already decided to terminate the meeting.
“You may be right but I feel the Church has nothing to fear from self-examination and as you say, it is clearly in the process of doing exactly that. You may not know it Pietro but today, the 28th of October, is my birthday and I was celebrating the occasion with friends before we met. You will understand therefore that I am somewhat weary. The day after tomorrow, we depart once more for Basle and that will be taxing to say the least so I hope you will forgive me if I retire now for the night. When you are ready, Gerrit will show you to your room. It will be somewhat basic I’m afraid, as everything has been packed up for the journey but you will be assured of a warm bed at least.”
With that, he grasped Pietro’s hand relatively warmly and half turned to go.
“Oh, by the way, if you are interested, I can provide you with an introduction to visit the gallery of Count Henry of Nassau. I am not sure if his lordship is in residence. I think he may be dispensing advice to the Emperor somewhere but you may get the chance to inspect a panel by Jeroen Bosch. ‘The Garden of Earthly Delights’ hangs there and it is an extraordinary work. If you wish to know more about Bosch, then you must surely visit this painting, it may provide you with some insight. You may also wish to know that the regent herself is an admirer of Bosch. I don’t fully understand it but have always admired the family’s ability to promote his work in the highest circles. I, myself, will be portrayed by Hans Holbein very soon, something I regard as an honour and reward for my poor efforts on this earth. Oh and finally, please give my warmest regards to Grimani and tell him I will write to him from Basle, with of course reference to your welcome visit and now I must retire, my eyes are closing as I speak.”
The loaded references to his exalted status and influential friends, plus the hint that Grimani would be left in no doubt as to Erasmus’ opinions of his envoy, were not lost on Fra Pietro and he could only bow respectfully as Erasmus left the room. He sat for a few minutes, drank one more glass of wine and reflected that the interview had been cut short rather sooner than he had hoped. When the manservant entered, he informed him that he would expect a letter of introduction to the palace here in Brussels before he left. The idea of viewing a Bosch panel was indeed attractive and Pietro was certainly curious. He had heard various rumours about the painter’s works and was keen to see if evidence of heresy could be seen first hand.
As he knelt in prayer before climbing into bed, Pietro asked God to give him more insight into the workings of clever minds. If he was to do God’s work, he needed to be more incisive in his investigations. Erasmus had given him very little that he didn’t already know, though the fact that the discussion had been abruptly terminated was a promising sign that the great man had been uncomfortable. He regretted that he hadn’t had the time to explore Erasmus’ outwardly stormy relationship with Luther. Naturally, any seditionist of Erasmus’ status and intellect would be suspicious of others questioning his motives but Pietro berated himself for not being subtle or patient enough. His approach and persona as an interested priest in the service of a great cardinal would need to be more convincing. Erasmus had clearly appreciated the dual nature of his visit.
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Chapter 7 Part 1
The Garden
He awoke to find the tips of his nose and ears stinging and his breath visibly steaming in the cold air. It had become decidedly colder overnight and after vigorously rubbing his face to restore circulation and opening the shutters he wasn’t surprised to see a thin layer of snow on the leaded lines of the window. He found the pisspot and while relieving himself noisily noticed a sealed letter on the table, more than likely the introduction to the palace. There was a temptation to open it but he could think of no reason why Erasmus would make life difficult; it had been his idea after all. The unpleasant discipline of splashing icy water on his face woke him up properly and he donned his undergarments and robe with some haste.
There was a tap on the door.
“Father?”
Angelo’s face peered into the room and showed evident relief at finding its occupant awake.
“There you are; I’ve searched the whole house for you and nearly woke Master Erasmus himself. Of course that despicable little man struck me for that and offered no help at all in locating you and I’ve had nothing to eat since yesterday because after he collected me from the Abbey, he was in such a foul humour, I was told to stay out of his way.”
Pietro chuckled.
“Good morning Angelo, did you sleep well?”
“That I did, yes I must say I slept very well but…”
“Then that is one positive thing eh! Now as for food, I’m hungry too. Let’s go and see if Master Gerrit’s inhospitality extends to me too.”
There was no sign of Erasmus’ manservant but they reached the kitchen quickly enough and found a large, bubbling kettle hanging over the fire. It contained some sort of steaming porridge and a small pot of honey on the side and the two travellers served themselves large portions onto heavy pewter plates. With the addition of a hank of bread and lumps of cheese, they were able to fill their stomachs for the day ahead. There were also lead cups from which to drink the decanted ale on the table but Pietro preferred water and Angelo was not given the chance. Gerrit had clearly been instructed to see to their needs but had successfully avoided a face-to-face confrontation, which suited Fra Pietro perfectly. His squire however, was disappointed; he had looked forward to seeing the man put in his place.
Their hurried walk across through the streets towards the palace of Nassau was not exactly pleasant. They had retrieved warmer clothing from the panniers on the horses but still the wind cut through and the raw cut in the air assaulted their noses and ears. It was dry but the sky was ominously dark and threatening and because the first snow had fallen on wet ground, it was a question of plodding through slush and mud. Predictably, Angelo quickly complained of wet feet and splashes on his hose. He moaned even more when he was given a coin and instructed to head for a tavern near the palace and wait for the friar there.
“But I know no one and they all speak a strange language and if they do speak Latin or French it is with such a peculiar accent, I can’t understand them and they laugh at me.”
‘It’s all part of your education you soft boy,’ thought Pietro but said nothing, patted him on the shoulder and pushed him off in the right direction. There had been few enough light moments during the last weeks but the sight of a disconsolate squire, shoulders slumped, picking his way, muttering and gesturing through the puddles, was comical indeed. Pietro, on the other hand, entered the palace doors with some enthusiasm and a spring in his step.
The introduction from Erasmus proved effective, though his relatively shabby appearance provoked some disapproving glances from assorted servants and lackeys. He had faint hopes of an introduction to the Count himself, or perhaps his lady wife but neither were in attendance and from his reception it was doubtful if he would have been allowed to meet with anyone of importance. The counts of Burgundy were well known for their lavish courts and extensive armies of civil servants, most of whom it seemed, were keeping a very close eye indeed on Fra Pietro from Venice. Standing alone in an atrium, irritated at being kept waiting and uncertain what he should do next, he was eventually approached by an aged monk with a crooked leg and a hunched back.
“I am Brother Franciscus, overseer to the Count’s collection and have been instructed to guide you. I understand you wish to inspect the Bosch?”
His voice was hoarse and barely above a whisper but his manner was at least friendly and Pietro’s misgivings diminished.
Franciscus led him along various passages and through rooms lined with paintings, tapestries and furnishings, all of which looked particularly fine and he wondered why Brussels was not the capital of the Netherlands; this was clearly a palace of some stature with an almost ostentatious display of wealth. He was by no means an expert on Art, regarding it as mostly a reflection of human vanity but he could appreciate the depth and light in this Flemish work. Pausing and looking closely at a piece by Van Eyck, he noticed that it seemed layered with glazes, both enriching the colour and adding substance to the subject. As opposed to what he had seen in Italy, these Northern artists seemed to choose more subjects from daily life, showing peasants, clerics and noblemen in almost equal quantity. Even the religious works were filled with accurate human emotions and gestures. Pietro found it refreshing and a change from the stylised, classical portrayals that were so popular at home. The monk was an enthusiastic and knowledgeable guide and clearly took great pride in maintaining the collection. He showed Pietro an illuminated manuscript, which literally glowed from the page. The letters and illustrations were so beautiful in their minute detail and he took great pleasure in taking time to read a passage from the Gospels.
It was noticeable that there were no frescoes to be seen and after enquiring was told that the climate was not conducive to the use of egg tempera; it was far too damp for the necessary quick drying on plaster. Instead, the artists primarily used oils on wood, which he thought were certainly richer, though he imagined that for exactly the same reasons, they would take an age to dry. People here preferred to deck their walls with tapestries both for warmth and as works of art in themselves. All in all, Pietro couldn’t help but be impressed by the sheer quantity of art. The monk told him that this abundance was due to a long tradition of patronage of the arts by the Burgundian dukes and lately the Hapsburgs which seemed to him very similar to Florence, Milan and Venice where the Medici and other great merchant families were also amassing huge collections.
During their tour, he was aware that they were never completely alone; there was always someone else around, ostensibly busy with other tasks but clearly observing the priest and his guide. Doing his best to ignore the constant surveillance, he looked forward to viewing Bosch’s panels. Almost five years earlier, whilst on business for cardinal Louis of Aragon, he had been given a lurid, if brief description of the work by the cardinal’s Italian secretary, Antonio de Beatis but that had little prepared him for his first sight of ‘The Garden of Earthly Delights’.
By accident or design, they had for once eluded their observers and turning a corner, entered an hexagonal tower room with four small, crenulated windows. The triptych he had come to see stood, bathed in the angled, winter light from the windows against a sidewall. The elements were mounted in such a way that both the front and rear of the work could be viewed if desired but the first surprise came with their size. He had expected something small, or maybe a medium sized altar piece but these panels were in total almost four metres wide and he was more than taken aback by the scale of what he saw.
Open mouthed, he turned to look at his guide for explanation but Brother Franciscus could only sigh, completely enraptured by the paintings. Without looking at Pietro, he murmured,
“Every time that I’m here, the same happens; every single time. It’s remarkable don’t you think? I see something new every time; some other aspect of the story; some new and fascinating structure and some other demon to haunt my dreams. It hypnotises me.”
Suddenly emerging from his reverie, he took Pietro by the arm and pulled him round the back of the panels.
“Come look. Here must you begin, on the reverse. Tell me what you think you see.”
The priest gazed at the back of the two panels as the monk closed them together. It was a world within a world; the Earth enclosed in a sphere and cut through in cross-section. He had heard of Copernicus’ new theory that the world was round and that the earth was in fact a globe and had found it highly dubious.
“When was this painted Brother Franciscus?”
“From what I’ve been told, it was a commission from Engelbert the Second, the present duke’s uncle and was probably finished in time for his promotion to Stadhouder General by Philip the Handsome. That would have been around 1480 in my reckoning. The Nassau family has strong connections to the Brotherhood of Our Lady you know and I suppose the contact with the painter Hieronymus Bosch was made via that connection in ‘s-Hertogenbosch. I cannot be certain of the exact date though.”
“You are certainly well-informed as to its provenance. Does that apply to all the works here in the palace?”
The monk drew himself up as straight as he could.
“Oh yes, I have been in service here for longer than I care to remember and apart from my clerical duties in the castle, I have been very proud to be curator of the Duke’s collection. I believe it is my duty to know as much as possible about each individual piece.”
“Don’t you find it curious that Bosch represents the Earth as a sphere? That theory is only now gaining credence, though I can’t believe it myself.”
“Ah but if you walked on the earth as shown here, would you also not fall off the edge, if you went too far? He shows the world as a plane within a transparent sphere. Under the surface is the centre of the Earth and above is the sky but it is all contained and maybe God created it exactly so. I have heard that the Spanish are finding new lands far to the west of the Atlantic, where previously it was thought that you would sail off the edge into oblivion. Do you think that is true, or are they also just stories?”
“Oh no, that is definitely true; they have discovered islands and a whole new land mass, which may be the Indies and China. Yet if that is true, then the world must be round, for the Spice islands are most definitely to the East.”
“Confusing isn’t it? I’m not sure what to believe but tell me, what do you see portrayed here?”
For the first time, Fra Pietro was somewhat uncertain about what he had believed all his life to be true but putting that difficult subject aside, he concentrated on the panels.
“It is painted in grisaille is it not, as if the world was being born, on the third day of Creation and before God brought colour to the elements? Alternatively, maybe it represents the Flood of Noah before Paradise was lost and regained. Then again, maybe it shows the end of all things, I am not sure. Do you know of the artist’s intention?”
“Not first hand no but I believe that the first step of every cycle is built upon the ashes of the previous cycle, therefore this shows the first things but also the last. Every ending has a beginning and every beginning contains an end. That is the rhythm of nature as created by God is it not. To me, these panels imitate the rise, fall and renewal of the world itself as described in the story of Noah and predicted in Revelations. Bosch was extremely clever, for the very act of opening and closing the triptych imitates that process. Like the Flood itself, it cleanses what is portrayed on the other side; the creation, multiplication and final obliteration and shows that from that end of all things will emerge a new beginning and salvation.”
Fra Pietro needed to adjust his thinking to encompass what was complex theological theory but he didn’t mind at all. After weeks of travelling, he felt a real need for intellectual challenge and listened with full concentration to his guide’s analysis. He was curious however about the glimpses of what seemed to be the trappings of alchemy he had seen on the main panels. The monk’s theories engendered their own questions. He decided to be direct.
“It seems to me you are describing the process of alchemical distillation here. Was that Bosch’s intention? There seem to be many pieces of alchemical apparatus displayed on the other side, or at least that struck me in my brief glimpse. Am I just imagining that? They seemed very evident.”
Brother Franciscus took a guarded approach. This Italian friar had arrived with impeccable credentials but not knowing him personally, he knew enough to be instinctively wary about what he said.
“Is that so? I hadn’t thought of it but to my mind all art is open to interpretation and most art is over analysed by the viewer don’t you think? People find the strangest messages in works that were meant to be merely representative. It is all in the eye of the beholder is it not and we interpret according to our beliefs and the times in which we live. I have seen Ottoman art that is unsurpassed in its beauty and can only be the product of God’s inspiration and yet we are encouraged to disparage it as heathen and ungodly. I believe you need to take some time to study the front panels and for that it would maybe best if you were alone and undisturbed. I shall take my leave of you and return later, perhaps with refreshments if that would please you?”
The friar nodded and thanked him and watched as he limped out of the room, the relief clearly visible in his departing shoulders.
Once more Pietro berated himself for being too direct. The monk could have been a fountain of knowledge, not only about Bosch but also about intrigues within the court of Nassau but was now guarded against indiscretion. He had been too long on the road and away from Italy. The normally acute senses and instincts with which he sought out information and for which he was famed, had apparently become dulled and transparent. Within the space of a day, he had managed to alert both Erasmus and this lowly monk to his agenda. It would not do and such carelessness in Venice, Florence, or Rome could cost him his patrons and maybe even his life.
He returned to the panels and walked slowly around to the front where the light seemed dimmer than before. Glancing up at the windows, he saw the reason why. Snow was piling up on the ledges against the bottled glass and inhibiting what little light there was left. Stepping outside, he selected a taper from the jug, and took a light from the torch in the passageway. With that, he lit the two candles fixed on finely worked iron stems and standing like sentries on either side of the panels. Their light cast shadows around the six walls and he shivered involuntarily, though the room itself was not cold. He now had sufficient light to look closely at Bosch’s work. Behind him, he heard soft footsteps but didn’t look around, assuming that Brother Franciscus had returned.
“There is so much to see here; so much detail, though not so much in the first panel with its vision of Eden. Those beasts and birds he paints; they are remarkable! Is it possible that he travelled to Italy? I can’t imagine that these creatures are to be seen in ‘s Hertogenbosch but then again he must have copied them from a bestiary. Cardinal Grimani has just such a book; the Hortus Sanitatis I think it is called and it is filled with such illustrations. That they inhabit the heavenly garden here is logical but they are beautifully portrayed. I do regret my own ignorance for I don’t know enough to place all the references; maybe you can help?”
He had been more or less thinking aloud but now he turned to request guidance. To his astonishment, he was still alone in the room. Apart from the sound of footsteps, he had been convinced that someone else was present and more to the point, although his eyes told him otherwise, he remained convinced that he was not on his own. It could only be Brother Franciscus; maybe he had stepped outside again. Pietro, walked into the passageway, fully expecting to meet his guide there but there was no one; the corridor was conspicuously empty. He took a deep breath. It was very disconcerting and he was reminded that this was not the first inexplicable occurrence of the last few weeks. He was not afraid but certainly nervous. Why was God testing his sanity? Nothing was more worrying than the feeling that he was unbalanced and no longer in full control; it was alien to his nature.
He realised he had to examine these paintings; it was essential for a better understanding of the artist himself and yet without a guide, they would be difficult to interpret. His voice sharp and echoing along the passage, he called out for Franciscus, decided to resist his insecurities and returned to the panels.
The light had faded even further, though he guessed it could only be early afternoon at the latest. The snow had piled high against the glass insulating the room from all sound except his own breathing. Wispy streams of pungent smoke carrying black, tadpole shaped, tar droplets rose from the candles and spread along the coned ceiling, giving the room an atmosphere he did his best to ignore. Gradually and almost imperceptibly, he found himself standing in a sort of cocoon where only the paintings remained unobscured. They were hypnotic and although his eyes were being continually drawn to the frenzies of the middle and right panels, he forced himself to concentrate on the first.
He was only allowed a moment’s concentration before it was interrupted by the unmistakeably uneven sound of Brother Franciscus’ return. The monk was breathless and took a few seconds to compose himself.
“You called for me Fra Pietro?”
Pietro looked at him with a degree of suspicion.
“You mean you weren’t here before?”
Even as he posed the question, he knew that this was the first time the monk had returned. The sound of him hobbling along the passageway was unmistakeable.
Now it was Franciscus’ turn to look puzzled.
“Yes, of course I was here before; you saw me leave. I have returned with some haste I might add, because I heard your call and it sounded urgent. Is everything all right? You look somewhat disconcerted?”
Pietro decided against regaling the monk with a tale of disembodied footsteps and tried to put it out of his mind but his anxiety about his own state of mind was gnawing at the pit of his stomach.
“I’m sorry if I caused you inconvenience but I do need someone to help me understand this paintings. I confess that my own knowledge is limited with regard to symbolism in art and I wondered if you would be so good as to fill in some of the gaps.”
His guide was clearly mollified and took to the task with enthusiasm, leading Pietro once more by the arm to the front of the panels.
“I must confess…” he confided, “…my age causes me to frequently need to piss, so if I take sudden leave of you again, you will understand why.”
“Of course, don’t worry on my account.”
Pietro was secretly pleased that he seemed to have regained Brother Franciscus’ confidence. Diplomacy should now achieve all he needed to know.
The Garden
He awoke to find the tips of his nose and ears stinging and his breath visibly steaming in the cold air. It had become decidedly colder overnight and after vigorously rubbing his face to restore circulation and opening the shutters he wasn’t surprised to see a thin layer of snow on the leaded lines of the window. He found the pisspot and while relieving himself noisily noticed a sealed letter on the table, more than likely the introduction to the palace. There was a temptation to open it but he could think of no reason why Erasmus would make life difficult; it had been his idea after all. The unpleasant discipline of splashing icy water on his face woke him up properly and he donned his undergarments and robe with some haste.
There was a tap on the door.
“Father?”
Angelo’s face peered into the room and showed evident relief at finding its occupant awake.
“There you are; I’ve searched the whole house for you and nearly woke Master Erasmus himself. Of course that despicable little man struck me for that and offered no help at all in locating you and I’ve had nothing to eat since yesterday because after he collected me from the Abbey, he was in such a foul humour, I was told to stay out of his way.”
Pietro chuckled.
“Good morning Angelo, did you sleep well?”
“That I did, yes I must say I slept very well but…”
“Then that is one positive thing eh! Now as for food, I’m hungry too. Let’s go and see if Master Gerrit’s inhospitality extends to me too.”
There was no sign of Erasmus’ manservant but they reached the kitchen quickly enough and found a large, bubbling kettle hanging over the fire. It contained some sort of steaming porridge and a small pot of honey on the side and the two travellers served themselves large portions onto heavy pewter plates. With the addition of a hank of bread and lumps of cheese, they were able to fill their stomachs for the day ahead. There were also lead cups from which to drink the decanted ale on the table but Pietro preferred water and Angelo was not given the chance. Gerrit had clearly been instructed to see to their needs but had successfully avoided a face-to-face confrontation, which suited Fra Pietro perfectly. His squire however, was disappointed; he had looked forward to seeing the man put in his place.
Their hurried walk across through the streets towards the palace of Nassau was not exactly pleasant. They had retrieved warmer clothing from the panniers on the horses but still the wind cut through and the raw cut in the air assaulted their noses and ears. It was dry but the sky was ominously dark and threatening and because the first snow had fallen on wet ground, it was a question of plodding through slush and mud. Predictably, Angelo quickly complained of wet feet and splashes on his hose. He moaned even more when he was given a coin and instructed to head for a tavern near the palace and wait for the friar there.
“But I know no one and they all speak a strange language and if they do speak Latin or French it is with such a peculiar accent, I can’t understand them and they laugh at me.”
‘It’s all part of your education you soft boy,’ thought Pietro but said nothing, patted him on the shoulder and pushed him off in the right direction. There had been few enough light moments during the last weeks but the sight of a disconsolate squire, shoulders slumped, picking his way, muttering and gesturing through the puddles, was comical indeed. Pietro, on the other hand, entered the palace doors with some enthusiasm and a spring in his step.
The introduction from Erasmus proved effective, though his relatively shabby appearance provoked some disapproving glances from assorted servants and lackeys. He had faint hopes of an introduction to the Count himself, or perhaps his lady wife but neither were in attendance and from his reception it was doubtful if he would have been allowed to meet with anyone of importance. The counts of Burgundy were well known for their lavish courts and extensive armies of civil servants, most of whom it seemed, were keeping a very close eye indeed on Fra Pietro from Venice. Standing alone in an atrium, irritated at being kept waiting and uncertain what he should do next, he was eventually approached by an aged monk with a crooked leg and a hunched back.
“I am Brother Franciscus, overseer to the Count’s collection and have been instructed to guide you. I understand you wish to inspect the Bosch?”
His voice was hoarse and barely above a whisper but his manner was at least friendly and Pietro’s misgivings diminished.
Franciscus led him along various passages and through rooms lined with paintings, tapestries and furnishings, all of which looked particularly fine and he wondered why Brussels was not the capital of the Netherlands; this was clearly a palace of some stature with an almost ostentatious display of wealth. He was by no means an expert on Art, regarding it as mostly a reflection of human vanity but he could appreciate the depth and light in this Flemish work. Pausing and looking closely at a piece by Van Eyck, he noticed that it seemed layered with glazes, both enriching the colour and adding substance to the subject. As opposed to what he had seen in Italy, these Northern artists seemed to choose more subjects from daily life, showing peasants, clerics and noblemen in almost equal quantity. Even the religious works were filled with accurate human emotions and gestures. Pietro found it refreshing and a change from the stylised, classical portrayals that were so popular at home. The monk was an enthusiastic and knowledgeable guide and clearly took great pride in maintaining the collection. He showed Pietro an illuminated manuscript, which literally glowed from the page. The letters and illustrations were so beautiful in their minute detail and he took great pleasure in taking time to read a passage from the Gospels.
It was noticeable that there were no frescoes to be seen and after enquiring was told that the climate was not conducive to the use of egg tempera; it was far too damp for the necessary quick drying on plaster. Instead, the artists primarily used oils on wood, which he thought were certainly richer, though he imagined that for exactly the same reasons, they would take an age to dry. People here preferred to deck their walls with tapestries both for warmth and as works of art in themselves. All in all, Pietro couldn’t help but be impressed by the sheer quantity of art. The monk told him that this abundance was due to a long tradition of patronage of the arts by the Burgundian dukes and lately the Hapsburgs which seemed to him very similar to Florence, Milan and Venice where the Medici and other great merchant families were also amassing huge collections.
During their tour, he was aware that they were never completely alone; there was always someone else around, ostensibly busy with other tasks but clearly observing the priest and his guide. Doing his best to ignore the constant surveillance, he looked forward to viewing Bosch’s panels. Almost five years earlier, whilst on business for cardinal Louis of Aragon, he had been given a lurid, if brief description of the work by the cardinal’s Italian secretary, Antonio de Beatis but that had little prepared him for his first sight of ‘The Garden of Earthly Delights’.
By accident or design, they had for once eluded their observers and turning a corner, entered an hexagonal tower room with four small, crenulated windows. The triptych he had come to see stood, bathed in the angled, winter light from the windows against a sidewall. The elements were mounted in such a way that both the front and rear of the work could be viewed if desired but the first surprise came with their size. He had expected something small, or maybe a medium sized altar piece but these panels were in total almost four metres wide and he was more than taken aback by the scale of what he saw.
Open mouthed, he turned to look at his guide for explanation but Brother Franciscus could only sigh, completely enraptured by the paintings. Without looking at Pietro, he murmured,
“Every time that I’m here, the same happens; every single time. It’s remarkable don’t you think? I see something new every time; some other aspect of the story; some new and fascinating structure and some other demon to haunt my dreams. It hypnotises me.”
Suddenly emerging from his reverie, he took Pietro by the arm and pulled him round the back of the panels.
“Come look. Here must you begin, on the reverse. Tell me what you think you see.”
The priest gazed at the back of the two panels as the monk closed them together. It was a world within a world; the Earth enclosed in a sphere and cut through in cross-section. He had heard of Copernicus’ new theory that the world was round and that the earth was in fact a globe and had found it highly dubious.
“When was this painted Brother Franciscus?”
“From what I’ve been told, it was a commission from Engelbert the Second, the present duke’s uncle and was probably finished in time for his promotion to Stadhouder General by Philip the Handsome. That would have been around 1480 in my reckoning. The Nassau family has strong connections to the Brotherhood of Our Lady you know and I suppose the contact with the painter Hieronymus Bosch was made via that connection in ‘s-Hertogenbosch. I cannot be certain of the exact date though.”
“You are certainly well-informed as to its provenance. Does that apply to all the works here in the palace?”
The monk drew himself up as straight as he could.
“Oh yes, I have been in service here for longer than I care to remember and apart from my clerical duties in the castle, I have been very proud to be curator of the Duke’s collection. I believe it is my duty to know as much as possible about each individual piece.”
“Don’t you find it curious that Bosch represents the Earth as a sphere? That theory is only now gaining credence, though I can’t believe it myself.”
“Ah but if you walked on the earth as shown here, would you also not fall off the edge, if you went too far? He shows the world as a plane within a transparent sphere. Under the surface is the centre of the Earth and above is the sky but it is all contained and maybe God created it exactly so. I have heard that the Spanish are finding new lands far to the west of the Atlantic, where previously it was thought that you would sail off the edge into oblivion. Do you think that is true, or are they also just stories?”
“Oh no, that is definitely true; they have discovered islands and a whole new land mass, which may be the Indies and China. Yet if that is true, then the world must be round, for the Spice islands are most definitely to the East.”
“Confusing isn’t it? I’m not sure what to believe but tell me, what do you see portrayed here?”
For the first time, Fra Pietro was somewhat uncertain about what he had believed all his life to be true but putting that difficult subject aside, he concentrated on the panels.
“It is painted in grisaille is it not, as if the world was being born, on the third day of Creation and before God brought colour to the elements? Alternatively, maybe it represents the Flood of Noah before Paradise was lost and regained. Then again, maybe it shows the end of all things, I am not sure. Do you know of the artist’s intention?”
“Not first hand no but I believe that the first step of every cycle is built upon the ashes of the previous cycle, therefore this shows the first things but also the last. Every ending has a beginning and every beginning contains an end. That is the rhythm of nature as created by God is it not. To me, these panels imitate the rise, fall and renewal of the world itself as described in the story of Noah and predicted in Revelations. Bosch was extremely clever, for the very act of opening and closing the triptych imitates that process. Like the Flood itself, it cleanses what is portrayed on the other side; the creation, multiplication and final obliteration and shows that from that end of all things will emerge a new beginning and salvation.”
Fra Pietro needed to adjust his thinking to encompass what was complex theological theory but he didn’t mind at all. After weeks of travelling, he felt a real need for intellectual challenge and listened with full concentration to his guide’s analysis. He was curious however about the glimpses of what seemed to be the trappings of alchemy he had seen on the main panels. The monk’s theories engendered their own questions. He decided to be direct.
“It seems to me you are describing the process of alchemical distillation here. Was that Bosch’s intention? There seem to be many pieces of alchemical apparatus displayed on the other side, or at least that struck me in my brief glimpse. Am I just imagining that? They seemed very evident.”
Brother Franciscus took a guarded approach. This Italian friar had arrived with impeccable credentials but not knowing him personally, he knew enough to be instinctively wary about what he said.
“Is that so? I hadn’t thought of it but to my mind all art is open to interpretation and most art is over analysed by the viewer don’t you think? People find the strangest messages in works that were meant to be merely representative. It is all in the eye of the beholder is it not and we interpret according to our beliefs and the times in which we live. I have seen Ottoman art that is unsurpassed in its beauty and can only be the product of God’s inspiration and yet we are encouraged to disparage it as heathen and ungodly. I believe you need to take some time to study the front panels and for that it would maybe best if you were alone and undisturbed. I shall take my leave of you and return later, perhaps with refreshments if that would please you?”
The friar nodded and thanked him and watched as he limped out of the room, the relief clearly visible in his departing shoulders.
Once more Pietro berated himself for being too direct. The monk could have been a fountain of knowledge, not only about Bosch but also about intrigues within the court of Nassau but was now guarded against indiscretion. He had been too long on the road and away from Italy. The normally acute senses and instincts with which he sought out information and for which he was famed, had apparently become dulled and transparent. Within the space of a day, he had managed to alert both Erasmus and this lowly monk to his agenda. It would not do and such carelessness in Venice, Florence, or Rome could cost him his patrons and maybe even his life.
He returned to the panels and walked slowly around to the front where the light seemed dimmer than before. Glancing up at the windows, he saw the reason why. Snow was piling up on the ledges against the bottled glass and inhibiting what little light there was left. Stepping outside, he selected a taper from the jug, and took a light from the torch in the passageway. With that, he lit the two candles fixed on finely worked iron stems and standing like sentries on either side of the panels. Their light cast shadows around the six walls and he shivered involuntarily, though the room itself was not cold. He now had sufficient light to look closely at Bosch’s work. Behind him, he heard soft footsteps but didn’t look around, assuming that Brother Franciscus had returned.
“There is so much to see here; so much detail, though not so much in the first panel with its vision of Eden. Those beasts and birds he paints; they are remarkable! Is it possible that he travelled to Italy? I can’t imagine that these creatures are to be seen in ‘s Hertogenbosch but then again he must have copied them from a bestiary. Cardinal Grimani has just such a book; the Hortus Sanitatis I think it is called and it is filled with such illustrations. That they inhabit the heavenly garden here is logical but they are beautifully portrayed. I do regret my own ignorance for I don’t know enough to place all the references; maybe you can help?”
He had been more or less thinking aloud but now he turned to request guidance. To his astonishment, he was still alone in the room. Apart from the sound of footsteps, he had been convinced that someone else was present and more to the point, although his eyes told him otherwise, he remained convinced that he was not on his own. It could only be Brother Franciscus; maybe he had stepped outside again. Pietro, walked into the passageway, fully expecting to meet his guide there but there was no one; the corridor was conspicuously empty. He took a deep breath. It was very disconcerting and he was reminded that this was not the first inexplicable occurrence of the last few weeks. He was not afraid but certainly nervous. Why was God testing his sanity? Nothing was more worrying than the feeling that he was unbalanced and no longer in full control; it was alien to his nature.
He realised he had to examine these paintings; it was essential for a better understanding of the artist himself and yet without a guide, they would be difficult to interpret. His voice sharp and echoing along the passage, he called out for Franciscus, decided to resist his insecurities and returned to the panels.
The light had faded even further, though he guessed it could only be early afternoon at the latest. The snow had piled high against the glass insulating the room from all sound except his own breathing. Wispy streams of pungent smoke carrying black, tadpole shaped, tar droplets rose from the candles and spread along the coned ceiling, giving the room an atmosphere he did his best to ignore. Gradually and almost imperceptibly, he found himself standing in a sort of cocoon where only the paintings remained unobscured. They were hypnotic and although his eyes were being continually drawn to the frenzies of the middle and right panels, he forced himself to concentrate on the first.
He was only allowed a moment’s concentration before it was interrupted by the unmistakeably uneven sound of Brother Franciscus’ return. The monk was breathless and took a few seconds to compose himself.
“You called for me Fra Pietro?”
Pietro looked at him with a degree of suspicion.
“You mean you weren’t here before?”
Even as he posed the question, he knew that this was the first time the monk had returned. The sound of him hobbling along the passageway was unmistakeable.
Now it was Franciscus’ turn to look puzzled.
“Yes, of course I was here before; you saw me leave. I have returned with some haste I might add, because I heard your call and it sounded urgent. Is everything all right? You look somewhat disconcerted?”
Pietro decided against regaling the monk with a tale of disembodied footsteps and tried to put it out of his mind but his anxiety about his own state of mind was gnawing at the pit of his stomach.
“I’m sorry if I caused you inconvenience but I do need someone to help me understand this paintings. I confess that my own knowledge is limited with regard to symbolism in art and I wondered if you would be so good as to fill in some of the gaps.”
His guide was clearly mollified and took to the task with enthusiasm, leading Pietro once more by the arm to the front of the panels.
“I must confess…” he confided, “…my age causes me to frequently need to piss, so if I take sudden leave of you again, you will understand why.”
“Of course, don’t worry on my account.”
Pietro was secretly pleased that he seemed to have regained Brother Franciscus’ confidence. Diplomacy should now achieve all he needed to know.
