We should not let the long tradition of smearing practicing Catholics as the brainwashed servants of a threatening foreign power—in which sensationalist and hyperbolic depictions of the Roman Inquisition play a part—from identifying the Catholic Church of the late sixteenth century for what it was: a repressive, cruel, and (in modern terms) fussily anal-retentive organization. No justification can or should be sought for torture, for the wracking of Menocchio and countless others on the ropes of the strappado, or in the flames of the auto-da-fé. Nor will excuses be made here on the basis of torture’s application in a minority of cases, or of the historical—and, sadly, contemporary—commonplaceness of the practice. The human scream cuts readily through such objections. (The transcript of Menocchio's agonies reads: “Oh Jesus, oh Jesus, oh poor me, oh poor me.") It is nevertheless the case that popular visions of pits and pendulums, of sadistic vicars gleefully condemning Christ to die (as in Ivan Karamazov’s famous parable), are not only wrong but do a disservice to the victims, Menocchio among them, of what was in fact a calculating, rational, blandly bureaucratic office.
The Inquisition targeted Menocchio not for arbitrary or merely punitive purposes, but because they rightly ascertained the very real threat he posed to Catholic hegemony in the hills of Friuli. Menocchio’s heresies were especially flamboyant iterations of the largely oral culture of the peasantry, rooted in a deep literalism of religious interpretation (which is not to say non-interpretation) that bore explosive political potential. Carlo Ginzburg is thus at pains at several points in The Cheese and the Worms to illustrate Menocchio’s representativeness of the culture around him. More precisely, Ginzburg claims that by examining the way Menocchio, a man of the oral culture, interprets or in some cases willfully misreads the books he encounters (representatives of the print culture), we can thereby discern certain qualities of the oral culture; or may do so, at least, to the degree that the oral culture is extricable from that of print, and to the degree that separate spheres of culture may be defined along certain media.
Ginzburg makes this case compellingly. One way he does so is by pointing to Montereale’s seeming tolerance of Menocchio and his ideas, without which Menocchio would have been hauled in long before he was for the first time in 1583—and only then after he was ratted on by the village priest. Hence Menocchio’s popularity with the villagers despite his (often despised) profession as miller. Hence also his election as mayor, and one villager’s description of him as “‘a man who is everybody’s friend.'" (Tolerance is not to say acceptance, as Menocchio’s “only confessed follower” in Montereale was “an illiterate carpenter” named Melchiorre.) Possibly this is a result of what Ginzburg calls elsewhere in the text “one of several channels feeding into a popular current—of which so far very little is known—favoring toleration, a few traces of which can be discerned in the course of the sixteenth century." This tolerance of the populace is evidence of a public at sharp odds with the Catholic authorities, one that becomes more interesting in light of the relative literacy of Montereale and environs. Of the eleven books Menocchio certainly read, six of them were loaned to him from friends (certainly not from his priest), which seems to indicate the existence of “a network of readers”; as Ginzburg observes, ““it’s astonishing that so much reading went on in this small town in the hills."
Another tack of Ginzburg’s, less convincing than the first, is to search for similarities between Menocchio’s heresies and those of another Italian miller from a generation prior, known as Pighino “the fat." While such similarities do exist—e.g. the emphasis of both heretics on the simplicity of the Gospel, their disdain for Church corruption and for the sacraments—these similarities are as easily explained as semi-learned peasant distortions of Luther as they are a springing forth from an oral underground. The sheer idiosyncrasy of Menocchio’s theology and cosmogony are enough to dispel accusations of Lutheranism in his case, but the same cannot be said for Pighino, who in fact was denounced as a “‘concubine-keeping Lutheran.'" We are therefore left with the lingering possibility that the coexistence of these cases is only a curious coincidence. Even so, the coincidence itself is striking, especially in light of the more concrete evidence Ginzburg provides in his reading of the Inquisitional record.
These records are the foundation of Ginzburg’s book. They are living documents, in that they present a theology that evolves before our eyes, in response to the attacks of his interrogator. See, for example, Menocchio’s distinction between a mortal soul that dies with the body and an immortal spirit that will be reunited with God at the end of time through apocatastasis. This distinction is not found in the trial records of 1583 or the first half of those from 1599, but under the pressure of the inquisitor, Menocchio begins splitting this particular hair. On other more crucial points, though, Menocchio remains steadfast, as in his bold claim that “‘it’s more important to love our neighbor than to love God’”, his denial of the divinity of Christ, and the apparent pantheism in his statement that “everything is God."
The danger of these beliefs to the power of the Church, should they be widely adopted, is self-explanatory. The question is whether there was a real risk that they would be, and here the evidence is twofold. First, Menocchio displays through his testimony about several books, especially the “parascriptural” chronicle Il Fioretto della Bibbia, a “manner of reading [that] was obviously one-sided and arbitrary—almost as if he was searching for confirmation of ideas and convictions that were already firmly entrenched”. These ideas and convictions, or at least the soil in which they grow, come from the oral culture. Second, the Inquisitor’s acrimonious sentence of 1584 emphasizes the sin of Menocchio’s decision to share his belief “‘not only with men of religion, but also with simple and ignorant people’”, putting their salvation at risk. The implication of this statement—and the cascade of vitriol that follows it—is that the peasantry are more susceptible to spiritual seduction than the elite, who are armed with their educations. The stated cause of this quality is the ostensible stupidity (“simplicity and ignorance”) of the peasant mind, but this is an evasion by the inquisitor. If peasants are in fact more open to Menocchio’s ideas, it is not because of their unintelligence per se, but because their “unintelligence” (in Inquisitorial eyes) leads them to hold common beliefs—that is, a peasant culture—which may then be stoked by Menocchio, and brought to light.
All of which is to say that the Church saw a threat in Menocchio because he was not an isolated case, and because his beliefs threatened the Inquisition’s goal of heretical containment and its emphasis on the value of theological purity and consistency. This emphasis, in contrast to the localization and syncretism of late medieval Christianity, was implicitly a validation of Protestant criticisms of the Church—that it practiced sloppy sacerdotalism rather than properly educating its members, or for that matter its clergy—and was an attempt to rectify these faults. This was done for reasons both moral (the genuine desire for spiritual improvement) and political (the destruction of Protestantism), and there is often much overlap between these categories. The renewed vigor, and consequent cruelty, of the Church during the Counter-Reformation meant that, barring overly literal counter-factuals (i.e. what if Menocchio hadn’t run into that tattletale flutist in 1598?), Menocchio’s death at the stake was for all intents inevitable. The immovable object that was the early modern church met the unstoppable force of Menocchio’s endless stream of words: earthy, evocative, by turns strident and simpering, and always painfully human, even across the chasm of centuries. Few of us have the courage or quixotic folly to stare up at an inquisitor asking us to explain ourselves and respond: “I thought you’d never ask.” For this the miller deserves not just our scholarly attention, but our respect and our love.