Romola

by George Eliot

  CHAPTER SIXTY SIX.

  A MASQUE OF THE FURIES.

  The next day was Palm Sunday, or Olive Sunday, as it was chiefly calledin the olive-growing Valdarno; and the morning sun shone with a moredelicious clearness for the yesterday's rain. Once more Savonarolamounted the pulpit in San Marco, and saw a flock around him whose faithin him was still unshaken; and this morning in calm and sad sincerity hedeclared himself ready to die: in front of all visions he saw his owndoom. Once more he uttered the benediction, and saw the faces of menand women lifted towards him in venerating love. Then he descended thesteps of the pulpit and turned away from that sight for ever.

  For before the sun had set Florence was in an uproar. The passionswhich had been roused the day before had been smouldering through thatquiet morning, and had now burst out again with a fury not unassisted bydesign, and not without official connivance. The uproar had begun atthe Duomo in an attempt of some Compagnacci to hinder the eveningsermon, which the Piagnoni had assembled to hear. But no sooner hadmen's blood mounted and the disturbances had become an affray than thecry arose, "To San Marco! the fire to San Marco!"

  And long before the daylight had died, both the church and convent werebeing besieged by an enraged and continually increasing multitude. Notwithout resistance. For the monks, long conscious of growing hostilitywithout, had arms within their walls, and some of them fought asvigorously in their long white tunics as if they had been KnightsTemplars. Even the command of Savonarola could not prevail against theimpulse to self-defence in arms that were still muscular under theDominican serge. There were laymen too who had not chosen to depart,and some of them fought fiercely: there was firing from the high altarclose by the great crucifix, there was pouring of stones and hot embersfrom the convent roof, there was close fighting with swords in thecloisters. Notwithstanding the force of the assailants, the attacklasted till deep night.

  The demonstrations of the Government had all been against the convent;early in the attack guards had been sent for, not to disperse theassailants, but to command all within the convent to lay down theirarms, all laymen to depart from it, and Savonarola himself to quit theFlorentine territory within twelve hours. Had Savonarola quitted theconvent then, he could hardly have escaped being torn to pieces; he waswilling to go, but his friends hindered him. It was felt to be a greatrisk even for some laymen of high name to depart by the garden wall, butamong those who had chosen to do so was Francesco Valori, who hoped toraise rescue from without.

  And now when it was deep night--when the struggle could hardly havelasted much longer, and the Compagnacci might soon have carried theirswords into the library, where Savonarola was praying with the Brethrenwho had either not taken up arms or had laid them down at his command--there came a second body of guards, commissioned by the Signoria todemand the persons of Fra Girolamo and his two coadjutors, Fra Domenicoand Fra Salvestro.

  Loud was the roar of triumphant hate when the light of lanterns showedthe Frate issuing from the door of the convent with a guard who promisedhim no other safety than that of the prison. The struggle now was, whoshould get first in the stream that rushed up the narrow street to seethe Prophet carried back in ignominy to the Piazza where he had bravedit yesterday--who should be in the best place for reaching his ear withinsult, nay, if possible, for smiting him and kicking him. This was notdifficult for some of the armed Compagnacci who were not prevented frommixing themselves with the guards.

  When Savonarola felt himself dragged and pushed along in the midst ofthat hooting multitude; when lanterns were lifted to show him deridingfaces; when he felt himself spit upon, smitten and kicked with grossestwords of insult, it seemed to him that the worst bitterness of life waspast. If men judged him guilty, and were bent on having his blood, itwas only death that awaited him. But the worst drop of bitterness cannever be wrung on to our lips from without: the lowest depth ofresignation is not to be found in martyrdom; it is only to be found whenwe have covered our heads in silence and felt, "I am not worthy to be amartyr; the Truth shall prosper, but not by me."

  But that brief imperfect triumph of insulting the Frate, who had soondisappeared under the doorway of the Old Palace, was only like the tasteof blood to the tiger. Were there not the houses of the hypocrite'sfriends to be sacked? Already one-half of the armed multitude, too muchin the rear to share greatly in the siege of the convent, had beenemployed in the more profitable work of attacking rich houses, not withplanless desire for plunder, but with that discriminating selection ofsuch as belonged to chief Piagnoni, which showed that the riot was underguidance, and that the rabble with clubs and staves was well officeredby sword-girt Compagnacci. Was there not--next criminal after theFrate--the ambitious Francesco Valori, suspected of wanting with theFrate's help to make himself a Doge or Gonfaloniere for life? And thegrey-haired man who, eight months ago, had lifted his arm and his voicein such ferocious demand for justice on five of his fellow-citizens,only escaped from San Marco to experience what _others_ called justice--to see his house surrounded by an angry, greedy multitude, to see hiswife shot dead with an arrow, and to be himself murdered, as he was onhis way to answer a summons to the Palazzo, by the swords of men namedRidolfi and Tornabuoni.

  In this way that Masque of the Furies, called Riot, was played on inFlorence through the hours of night and early morning.

  But the chief director was not visible: he had his reasons for issuinghis orders from a private retreat, being of rather too high a name tolet his red feather be seen waving amongst all the work that was to bedone before the dawn. The retreat was the same house and the same roomin a quiet street between Santa Croce and San Marco, where we have seenTito paying a secret visit to Dolfo Spini. Here the Captain of theCompagnacci sat through this memorable night, receiving visitors whocame and went, and went and came, some of them in the guise of armedCompagnacci, others dressed obscurely and without visible arms. Therewas abundant wine on the table, with drinking-cups for chance comers andthough Spini was on his guard against excessive drinking, he took enoughfrom time to time to heighten the excitement produced by the news thatwas being brought to him continually.

  Among the obscurely-dressed visitors Ser Ceccone was one of the mostfrequent, and as the hours advanced towards the morning twilight he hadremained as Spini's constant companion, together with Francesco Cei, whowas then in rather careless hiding in Florence, expecting to have hisbanishment revoked when the Frate's fall had been accomplished.

  The tapers had burnt themselves into low shapeless masses, and holes inthe shutters were just marked by a sombre outward light, when Spini, whohad started from his seat and walked up and down with an angry flush onhis face at some talk that had been going forward with those twounmilitary companions, burst out--

  "The devil spit him! he shall pay for it, though. Ha, ha! the clawsshall be down on him when he little thinks of them. So _he_ was to bethe great man after all! He's been pretending to chuck everythingtowards my cap, as if I were a blind beggarman, and all the while he'sbeen winking and filling his own scarsella. I should like to hang skinsabout him and set my hounds on him! And he's got that fine ruby ofmine, I was fool enough to give him yesterday. Malediction! And he waslaughing at me in his sleeve two years ago, and spoiling the best planthat ever was laid. I was a fool for trusting myself with a rascal whohad long-twisted contrivances that nobody could see to the end of buthimself."

  "A Greek, too, who dropped into Florence with gems packed about him,"said Francesco Cei, who had a slight smile of amusement on his face atSpini's fuming. "You did _not_ choose your confidant very wisely, myDolfo."

  "He's a cursed deal cleverer than you, Francesco, and handsomer too,"said Spini, turning on his associate with a general desire to worryanything that presented itself.

  "I humbly conceive," said Ser Ceccone, "that Messer Francesco's poeticgenius will outweigh--"

  "Yes, yes, rub your hands! I hate that notary's trick of yours,"interrupted Spini, whose patronage consisted largel
y in this sort offrankness. "But there comes Taddeo, or somebody: now's the time! Whatnews, eh?" he went on, as two Compagnacci entered with heated looks.

  "Bad!" said one. "The people have made up their minds they were goingto have the sacking of Soderini's house, and now they have been balkedwe shall have them turning on us, if we don't take care. I suspectthere are some Mediceans buzzing about among them, and we may see themattacking your palace over the bridge before long, unless we can find abait for them another way."

  "I have it!" said Spini, and seizing Taddeo by the belt he drew himaside to give him directions, while the other went on telling Cei howthe Signoria had interfered about Soderini's house.

  "Ecco!" exclaimed Spini, presently, giving Taddeo a slight push towardsthe door. "Go, and make quick work."