The Palace
PART III Prologue

Donna Estasia Catarina
di Arrigo della
Cittadella da Parma
Su! Su! Sorge coll' aurora
Brillo e l' etenita
Gloria splendera
L' ombra della vita spent in un' ora.
Up! Up! Rise with the dawn
Shining eternally
Glory resplendent glows.
And in an hour, life's shadow is gone.
-Suor Estasia del Mistero degli Angeli
Text of a letter from Marsilio Ficino to the Venezian poet Cassandra Fedele:
To his admired colleague and respected friend Cassandra Fedele, her old adviser Ficino sends greetings from Careggi.
It's been too long since we have exchanged letters, and though I realize this is more my fault than yours, still I find myself anxious to hear from you, to learn what you are doing. Your recent works have been true inspiration for me at a time when little else can move me to any emotion but sorrow.
As I sit in this underground room at Laurenzo's old villa, I am caught up with my memories. It was just three years ago that Piero and his family were exiled. It was three years ago that young Conte Giovanni Pico della Mirandola died, though he was little more than thirty. To have his death follow so soon on that of Agnolo Poliziano's was a great blow to me. So here I sit, the last of them, waiting for death to reunite us. A terrible thing for a priest to say? You'll recall that Socrates chose death, and Our Lord welcomed it. I feel as if I have outlasted my time, and that I am overdue to leave this world. What good am I? I am forbidden to teach, my friends are dead or far away and my works gather dust in locked chambers.
I went into Fiorenza last week, which was a mistake. You would not know the place now, Cassandra. There is no joy there. Even the grave delights of worship are gone, and though the churches are full, there is fear and desperation there, not solace, wisdom and triumph.
You no doubt see now why I write so rarely. What I have to tell you saddens me, and my heart is too full of sorrow already. Tonight, if Laurenzo were still alive, if Fiorenza was now as it was six years ago, there would have been a feast to celebrate the birth of Plato and we would have spent the night in the pleasures of philosophy and good fellowship.
Now, those sons of Pierfrancesco de' Medici call themselves Popolano, as if they are shamed by the memory of Cosimo and Laurenzo. Fiorenza calls them traitors, but it was Cosimo and Laurenzo who glorified the city while Pierfrancesco's line had paid to have Botticelli's murals of the Pazzi conspirators destroyed, and Laurenzo's verses defaced. I never believed it would come to this, that Fiorenza would so soon forget the family that loved her, and filled her with all the beauty of the world, gave her the treasures of learning and art to adorn her.
The young Flemish scholar I told you of last year, de Waart, has had to flee, for he is under suspicion of being an alchemist and irreligious. As strict as the laws were made two years ago, they are now even stricter. They have fallen heavily on all of us -not just de Waart, but every man of learning. Educated men are suspect, and that kind young woman Demetrice Volandrai, whom Laurenzo loved so dearly and who has been living in the palazzo of il stragnero Francesco Ragoczy, has been imprisoned on some ridiculous excuse. Apparently it has been decided that it is sinful for a woman to be able to read Greek.
This religion is like a plague, sweeping everything before it, robbing the city of life, of hope. If I were not so old, and so weary of life, I think I might leave Fiorenza, dear as she is to me and much as I have loved to live here. It is agony to see her brought so low, that she is powerless and despised everywhere when once she was a beacon to all the world.
I have sought consolation in philosophy and in the practice of my faith, but I am overcome. I have been a priest for more than twenty years, and now, when I most desire the strength of my vocation, I am weak and filled with doubts. I see Girolamo Savonarola standing at the center of Fiorenza, defying the Pope and his excommunication, and I remember that Laurenzo also refused to accept such a Bull, and I wonder, is it that I loved Laurenzo and fear Savonarola that makes it seem that Laurenzo's act was one of enlightened courage and Savonarola's one of arrogant pride?
There. I made a vow not to burden you with this, Donna Cassandra. You have too gentle a heart to have it weighted down with my despondency. But every time I take my quill in hand, grief possesses me and I am helpless to deny it. You may seek to cheer me, if you like, but I feel now as if my heart was a cinder, and that it will never glow with fire again. Perhaps
Suor Estasia del Mistero degli Angeli is right, and it is in heaven only that hope, joy and glory reside. That's what her visions tell her. And I, like San Tommaso, find only doubts.
Before I trouble you more, I will say farewell for a time. When my mind is less oppressed I will write to you once more, and tell you the beautiful sights I have seen, and the pleasure I have in learning. In spring the countryside will be beautiful, and there will be fewer brigands, perhaps, to assault travelers. Certainly there will be some happiness in the world, if it is only a new flower in the hills or a barnyard full of chicks.
I commend myself to your kindness, and thank you again for the fruits of your talent. This, with my blessings, and my most genuine affection.
Marsilio Ficino
At Careggi, near Fiorenza, November 7, 1497