The great deliverers of men have, for the most part, saved them from calamities which we all recognise as evil, from calamities which are the ancient enemies of humanity.  The great law-givers saved us from anarchy:  the great physicians saved us from pestilence:  the great reformers saved us from starvation.  But there is a huge and bottomless evil compared with which all these are flea-bites, the most desolating curse that can fall upon men or nations, and it has no name, except we call it satisfaction.  Savonarola did not save men from anarchy, but from order; not from pestilence, but from paralysis; not from starvation, but from luxury.  Men like Savonarola are the witnesses to the tremendous psychological fact at the back of all our brains, but for which no name has ever been found, that ease is the worst enemy of happiness, and civilisation potentially the end of man.

For I fancy that Savonarola’s thrilling challenge to the luxury of his day went far deeper than the mere question of sin.  The modern rationalistic admirers of Savonarola, from George Eliot downwards, dwell, truly enough, upon the sound ethical justification of Savonarola’s anger, upon the hideous and extravagant character of the crimes which polluted the palaces of the Renaissance.  But they need not be so anxious to show that Savonarola was no ascetic, that he merely picked out the black specks of wickedness with the priggish enlightenment of a member of an Ethical Society.  Probably he did hate the civilisation of his time, and not merely its sins; and that is precisely where he was infinitely more profound than a modern moralist.  He saw that the actual crimes were not the only evils:  that stolen jewels and poisoned wine and obscene pictures were merely the symptoms; that the disease was the complete dependence upon jewels and wine and pictures.  This is a thing constantly forgotten in judging of ascetics and Puritans in old times.  A denunciation of harmless sports did not always mean an ignorant hatred of what no one but a narrow moralist would call harmful.  Sometimes it meant an exceedingly enlightened hatred of what no one but a narrow moralist would call harmless.  Ascetics are sometimes more advanced than the average man, as well as less.

Such, at least, was the hatred in the heart of Savonarola.  He was making war against no trivial human sins, but against godless and thankless quiescence, against getting used to happiness, the mystic sin by which all creation fell.  He was preaching that severity which is the sign-manual of youth and hope.  He was preaching that alertness, that clean agility and vigilance, which is as necessary to gain pleasure as to gain holiness, as indispensable in a lover as in a monk.  A critic has truly pointed out that Savonarola could not have been fundamentally anti-aesthetic, since he had such friends as Michael Angelo, Botticelli, and Luca della Robbia.  The fact is that this purification and austerity are even more necessary for the appreciation of life and laughter than for anything else.  To let no bird fly past unnoticed, to spell patiently the stones and weeds, to have the mind a storehouse of sunset, requires a discipline in pleasure, and an education in gratitude.