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The Card Painter
Although it was winter, the preacher was visibly perspiring. His nearly bald head glistened in the bright afternoon sun in his pulpit on the steps of the cathedral. The crowd in the plaza, perhaps several thousand, were crammed against each other, straining to catch every word.
"Let me tell you the terrible mystery of where your games come from: from the mind and the machination of the Evil One - Lucifer himself! Do you know why? To better lead you to Hell. Do you know how? One day, the Devil called together all the dark princes and soldiers of the infernal regions, all of the rebels against God and the enemies of Christ, and told them of his new master plan to destroy God's Holy Church: 'Beloved, I have thought of another way to bring more souls to us. It is a new way to bring men to offend God, to cause fights, hatred and murder among men, to make them blaspheme the name of God and ridicule all the rites and ordinances of his Church. I call it 'Games' - and by the infinite variety and forms of these games, there will be an infinite variety of ways to lead men away from the way of God onto the path of perdition."
In the middle of the crowd, Valesio the card painter was getting nervous. His stock had not be selling well this Christmas season, and the rumours were that people were beginning to see something sinister in his packs of cards. The owners of the taverns and gambling houses were buying fewer packs, and some had not come in since the beginning of Advent; but even more worrying was that the students here in Bologna, hundreds of whom loved to play cards and who bought packs on a regular basis throughout the year, were coming by less and less. Without this season's sales, when everyone, it seemed, played games to pass the time, Valesio wasn't sure he could make it through next year.
What was going on? A law student, the last to come into his shop (a week ago! - and he hestitated before leaving the shop without buying anything), had suggested he ought to go listen to Bernardino, the franciscan preacher from Siena, to maybe find an answer to why no one was buying. Bernardino was the most famous preacher in all Italy, everybody knew who he was; not everybody liked him, but from what Valesio knew of him Bernardino was doing good work - preaching against greedy Jews and bankers, filthy sodomites and above all, witches. These were good things. The franciscan had done in this godless age what Church councils, bishops and politicians hadn't been able to do - he got cities to crack down on greed, superstition, and lawlessness. But what had that to do with his cards?
So Valesio had come to the Piazza Maggiore this afternoon to hear for himself the preacher whom everyone was talking about, and whom he had heard was the one behind his decline in sales. From the beginning, he had a dark sense of foreboding.
He listened as Bernardino told how Satan intended to parody the rites of the Church. The Churches of Satan would be gambling houses and taverns; the altars would be the tables on which the games are played; he recited the names of games, saying they were demons' names; he said dice brought men to drunkenness and ruin, and finally he came around to the very basis of Valesio's profession, cards:
"Cards and nayibs are the Devil's prayerbook! You know how prayerbooks are full of miniature paintings - exactly as cards are. The letters in the prayerbook are the Clubs, things that fools and vagrants carry; the Cups are the drunks and the barflies; the Coins are greed; the Swords are quarrels, strife and murder. The pages with miniature paintings are the King - king of ribaldry; Queen - queen of the ribalds; the Knight is a sodomite; the Page is lust..."
Valesio stood aghast, unable to believe his ears. His cards symbolized all these evil things? And they were invented by the Devil? Little packs of cards? His little packs of cards - the elegant, simple designs his father had so patiently taught him to draw, were invented by the Devil himself? Impossible! They were toys; harmless, simple things. Sometimes people went too far - bad people will always find a reason - but usually it was fun and harmless to play cards. Even educational. Yet here was the famous preacher Bernardino of Siena, a man of humility, clear sanctity, and far greater learning than Valesio would ever possess, saying and explaining in vivid and irrefutable terms precisely that they were the Devil's work.
His mind was reeling. Where did cards come from exactly? His father Rodrigo had said they came from Spain, where he had learned them as a little boy in Barcelona. Valesio’s grandfather Nicolas, a painter, hadn’t known them – he didn’t like the game - he said they were a Saracen invention. Saracens! Maybe nonno Nicolas was right - Saracens were devils, certainly. So it could be true! The Saracens, in league with the Devil, were trying to destroy Christendom from within - just as they were trying to invade from without - through the insidious device of a pack of playing cards - nayibs as they were called in Spain, and as some old-timers still called them here. And Valesio stood accused of playing the unwitting helper in their diabolical plan! A crazy thought...
Valesio looked anxiously through the faces in the crowd around him, unsure if anyone would recognize him as the biggest cardmaker in town, the one responsible for spreading this Saracenic-diabolical invention around. Of course they would. But as he listened to Bernardino's call to repentance, he felt something else in himself.
He began to tremble with nervousness - not fear, but a dawning awareness. In his mind he pictured his cards, the four suits of Coins, Cups, Swords and Batons; the stern and noble Kings, elegant Queens, proud Knights and serene Pages, who had seemed so innocent for all his life, so innocent up to a just a moment ago. Now he began to understand how subtle the Devil's work had been - he used these simple designs precisely because they appeared harmless. Bernardino had explained it clearly, so clearly he wondered why he hadn't seen it before - all the Devil's liturgy, the way Satan got men to go to the tavern, to drink, to waste their money, to fight and kill each other; the way he brought men and women together for idle pastimes - his cards - and opened them to drunkenness and lust.
Valesio began to feel disgusted with himself, shame at his work, his father's work, the profession his family lived by. It was filthy, evil money they earned. As hard as he fought to shut out these feelings, the preacher's insistent call brought them back - he couldn't argue.
He looked to the sky to get some perspective, trying to block out the sound of the preacher's voice, the cries and moans of the crowd; but even in the bright blue sky, he found only condemnation. What could he do now?
The preacher had finished, and descended from his pulpit, walking through the crowd towards a tall, broad bonfire in the centre of the plaza. While there were always bonfires burning, especially in winter, this was the largest Valesio had ever seen - it was easily twenty feet wide and fifteen feet high. The Devil's Castle Bernardino had called it. Groups of men were piling dry branches and planks of wood on top of the smouldering coals, while others were drawing loaded carts towards the fire, which begain crackling and hissing as the fresh wood took flame. The carts, he saw, were loaded with expensive fabrics, ornate hats, shoes and gloves, along with paintings, woodcarvings and books. But Valesio also saw several carts containing piles of game boards and dice, and what he recognized to his horror were piles of loose playing cards and scores of wrapped packs of cards, many of which he himself had sold up to a few weeks ago. His work!
Bernardino's assistants began tossing the valuables onto the blaze, poking them for better burning as they piled more and more. Grabbing handfuls of cards, they scattered them over the flames, where they were almost instantly consumed and fed the fire still higher.
Valesio was close enough to the bonfire to feel the scorching heat, and watching people he had sold cards to, now in a frenzy to burn them, combined with the heat to make him almost collapse. He recognized some of the congregation, who had seemed so happy a few weeks before to buy a few packs of cards - the Devil's work - now happily feeding the flames with their own hands, with his and his family's hard won labour.
He looked away in shame and confusion - did they look at him with menacing eyes, he who had made and sold them these diabolical portraits? Did any of them suffer the evils that his work could cause? Were there fights, debts, broken families, murders, that he didn't know about - that his cards had caused? Now he knew, or at least began to know, that his labour was the work of the Devil.
What could he do?
Valesio began to back away from the fire, searching for an escape. The direction to his home was on the other side of the bonfire. He kept his eyes down as he pushed through the crowd, to avoid recognition. After circling around the bonfire a few persons deep in the crowd, he looked up - and suddenly found himself but a few feet from Bernardino himself, the preacher's pale face reddened by the blaze, looking on impassively as the crowd eagerly threw their most cherished belongings - vanities - onto the bonfire.
Several people were crowded around the preacher, and Valesio could hear them begging for a blessing, which the placid Bernardino dispensed by making the sign of the cross. Another one's hands he held, drawing close and whispering something in their ear, and afterwards making the sign of the cross. The preacher seemed to radiate God's grace - as a tearful peasant begged him to heal a child, he gently told her to pray the holy name of Jesus, and to bring the child with her on Monday, when he would preach on healing.
As the crowd pressed around Bernardino, the preacher seemed to become more and more radiant, and Valesio felt drawn to him, even as his livelihood was being incinerated before him. He drew closer, finding that the crowd seemed impossibly thick the closer he got to the preacher. Bernardino seemed elevated, glowing, completely at ease even though so heavily beset by the crying, moaning throng. Even though the preacher had dozens of blessings to give, it seemed like no time before Valesio was face to face with him. And then like a mark of divine providence, beside Valesio appeared Giovanni, the artisan who made the brightly painted game boards that were disappearing into smoke and cinder just yards away. They briefly looked at each other, then looked away, recognizing the same feelings in one another's faces - had each lost as much, and yet felt the same profound truth in the preacher? How could this man have so much godly power?
Bernardino looked up from the last person over whom he'd made the sign of the cross, and turned to look at the pair of artisans who stood before him.
His gaze met Valesio's, his limpid eyes seemed to reach straight into his soul. Bernardino's demeanour had changed - he looked younger, stronger, full of energy; he seemed larger than when Valesio had been a few feet away. His presence put Valesio completely at ease; it seemed like they were alone, the two of them. There was no more crowd, no more rush of penitents, no flames engulfing his whole life behind him. Time seemed to stand still.
Suddenly Valesio realized he didn't know what he wanted to say. He searched, but before the holy man he could only blurt out, "I'm a card painter. Forgive me, father". He knew that wasn't it, but it just wouldn't come...
Bernardino looked at him warmly, saying "Repent and turn from these works of the Devil; you are forgiven", and then raising his hand, "..in the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit" making the sign of the cross over Valesio. Then he started to turn toward Giovanni.
Valesio had forgotten Giovanni was there, and he was still unsatisfied with what he had said to Bernardino. "Father..." he pleaded.
Bernardino looked back, his placid, infinite gaze searching Valesio's soul. Bernardino took his hand, gently, and asked "What is it, my son?" Valesio almost knew what to say, but Giovanni would not be forgotten. He blurted out, "Father, I too make games. The game boards. It's the only profession my family has ever done, and it's the only one I know. It's the only way we make our living, and now it's going up in smoke. There's nothing else we can do. I don't want to be serving the Devil, but I don't know any other way to make a living than painting game boards. I don't know what to do for my family..." He trailed off.
That's what I wanted to say, Valesio thought with relief and regret.
Bernardino had let go of Valesio's hand and looked at both men, unblinking. He answered them with a steady, reassuring voice that seemed to come from somewhere else, "Do not worry, my sons; if you cannot do anything but paint, paint this", and as he said this he drew out of his satchel a sheet of parchment, which had
designed upon it.
Valesio looked. Giovanni looked. The two men looked at it and looked at each other, but neither understood. What was this?
"This is the Holy Name of Jesus", Bernardino answered their unspoken confusion. "Make it, and never be poor again". He handed it to Giovanni, and suddenly turned to another blessing-seeker in the crowd.
Suddenly everything returned - the noise and press of the crowd, the crackling and smoke of the giant bonfire, and the clear blue sky overhead. In the jostling mass of people, Giovanni had disappeared. Valesio was alone.
He had seen it, but he could barely remember what it was. As he made his way home through the streets in the gathering dusk, he began to doubt his feelings from earlier. Were cards really evil? Even though he thought he had been convinced, he wasn't so sure now. The preacher was long gone, the crowd, the bonfire and Giovanni's plea were mere memories.
It was dark when Valesio reached his shop. "VALESIO DI RODRIGO DA BARCELONA/ CARTE FINE DA GIOCO" read the sign in the window. The doorway beside the shop led up a stairway to his house above.
His wife Maria was waiting for him. "Well, did you find out why we're going broke?". Maria wasn't a particularly pious woman, although she insisted on her children's religious education, and confessed in San Pietro at least once a year. She was a practical woman and generally a good judge of character, and together she and Valesio were a good team who had built a profitable business making playing cards. But, Maria did not trust this preacher Bernardino, with a reputation of overturning cities and hosting huge, smelly and dangerous bonfires in the square, turning harmless toys into a vision of Hell.
"Yes, I think so" replied Valesio, still dazed from what had happened. He looked at the floor, trying to remember what had happened.
"Well, what? You look awful!" Maria looked him up and down once with raised eyebrows, and motioned for him to sit at the table. "Sit down and tell me about this rabble-rouser", she said, pouring him a glass of wine.
Valesio looked at the wine, wondering if Bernardino would approve during Lent. He banished the thought - he had enough to explain to his wife. "I don't think…" he trailed off.
"Think what?"
"I don't think… it's not easy to explain. There's too much." He struggled for words. "I think we were wrong. Cards aren't right." He looked at Maria, who was regarding him with one eyebrow raised and two hands on the table, tapping her fingers.
Valesio searched his feelings for the courage to tell her why he thought cards were a Saracenic, diabolical invention. Too crazy, he thought… then he remembered - "Do we have any paper?" he asked her.
"Of course, do you want to write me a love letter?" she joked sarcastically, but Valesio only looked at her more earnestly. "Okay", she said, walking to the shelves where a few pieces of scrap paper were stacked up. She handed a piece to him.
With his pencil, Valesio drew the design Bernardino had shown him, still impressed on his mind. "YHS" in a sunburst with twelve rays. He showed it to Maria.
"What's this? It's strange," she responded, puzzling to make sense of it.
"The preacher gave it to me. He said we should make this instead of cards".
"Ha! Fat chance," sneered Maria, still looking intently at the image. "It isn't even a picture of anything. Who'll buy it? What for? It's just a mark, a seal. You can't play with it. What good is it?"
"Bernardino said it was the holy name of Jesus," replied Valesio, eyes cast down. He knew what Maria thought of Bernardino.
"So you call him by his name? Are you a penitent too now? How is this going to save our business?"
"I think…"
"You think what?"
"I think it might. You should have been there."
"I know. And then I'd be burning our cards too, right?"
"Maybe you would" replied Valesio weakly. He was still too confused about the day's events, his tortured thoughts about Saracens and Satan, to put up a defense. He knew he couldn't convince his wife, just yet, of the preacher's power, but he still had time. Bernardino would be preaching again tomorrow. At least, he knew it had really happened. And he believed that the preacher had been right about the evil of playing cards, and dice, and all those games like Giovanni made. His thoughts turned to his biggest customers, the barattieri, who ran the gambling rooms. They were a sleazy bunch, but they were his livelihood. He had never before considered what a compulsion gambling was, why they needed so many dice and cards - those poor people were in the grip of Satan, and they were losing their souls. Valesio was just a businessman, but now he knew, he was indirectly serving the Devil, and he had to stop.
But he had to think it about it some more.
The city was silent. In their bed above the shop room, Valesio was wide awake beside his calmly sleeping wife.
