“Welcome, welcome, my dear son!” said that rich voice which had thrilled so many thousand Italian hearts with its music. “So you are come back to the fold again. How goes the good work of the Lord?”
“Well, everywhere,” said Father Antonio, and then, recollecting his young friend, he suddenly turned and said, —
“Let me present to you one son who comes to seek your instructions, — the young Signor Agostino, of the noble house of Sarelli.”
The Superior turned to Agostino with a movement full of a generous frankness, and warmly extended his hand, at the same time fixing upon him the mesmeric glance of a pair of large, deep blue eyes, which might, on slight observation, have been mistaken for black, so great was their depth and brilliancy.
Agostino surveyed his new acquaintance with that mingling of ingenuous respect and curiosity with which an ardent young man would regard the most distinguished leader of his age, and felt drawn to him by a certain atmosphere of vital cordiality such as one can feel better than describe.
“You have ridden far to-day, my son, — you must be weary,” said the Superior, affably; “but here you must feel yourself at home; command us in anything we can do for you. The brothers will attend to those refreshments which are needed after so long a journey; and when you have rested and supped, we shall hope to see you a little more quietly.”
So saying, he signed to one or two brothers who stood by, and, commending the travelers to their care, left the apartment.
In a few moments a table was spread with a plain and wholesome repast, to which the two travelers sat down with appetites sharpened by their long journey.
During the supper, the brothers of the convent, among whom Father Antonio had always been a favorite, crowded around him in a state of eager excitement.
“You should have been here the last week,” said one; “such a turmoil as we have been in!”
“Yes,” said another, “the Pope hath set on the Franciscans, who, you know, are always ready enough to take up with anything against our order, and they have been pursuing our father like so many hounds.”
“There hath been a whirlwind of preaching here and there,” said a third, “in the Duomo, and Santa Croce, and San Lorenzo; and they have battled to and fro, and all the city is full of it.”
“Tell him about yesterday, about the ordeal,” shouted an eager voice.
Two or three voices took up the story at once, and began to tell it, all the others correcting, contradicting, or adding incidents. From the confused fragments here and there Agostino gathered that there had been on the day before a popular spectacle in the grand piazza, in which, according to an old superstition of the Middle Ages, Fra Girolamo Savonarola and his opponents were expected to prove the truth of their words by passing unhurt through the fire; that two immense piles of combustibles had been constructed with a narrow passage between, and the whole magistracy of the city convened, with a throng of the populace, eager for the excitement of the spectacle; that the day had been spent in discussions, and scruples, and preliminaries; and that, finally, in the afternoon, a violent storm of rain arising had dispersed the multitude and put a stop to the whole exhibition.
“But the people are not satisfied,” said Father Angelo; “and there are enough mischief-makers among them to throw all the blame on our father.”
“Yes,” said one, “they say he wanted to burn the Holy Sacrament, because he was going to take it with him into the fire.”
“As if it could burn!” said another voice.
“It would to all human appearance, I suppose,” said a third.
“Any way,” said a fourth, “there is some mischief brewing; for here is our friend Prospero Rondinelli just come in, who says, when he came past the Duomo, he saw people gathering, and heard them threatening us: there were as many as two hundred, he thought.”
“We ought to tell Father Girolamo,” exclaimed several voices.
“Oh, he will not be disturbed!” said Father Angelo. Since these affairs, he hath been in prayer in the chapter-room before the blessed Angelico’s picture of the Cross. When we would talk with him of these things, he waves us away, and says only, ‘I am weary; go and tell Jesus.’”
“He bade me come to him after supper,” said Father Antonio. “I will talk with him.”
“Do so, — that is right,” said two or three eager voices as the monk and Agostino, having finished their repast, arose to be conducted to the presence of the father.
CHAPTER XXI. THE ATTACK ON SAN MARCO
They found him in a large and dimly lighted apartment, sitting absorbed in pensive contemplation before a picture of the Crucifixion by Fra Angelico, which, whatever might be its naïve faults of drawing and perspective, had an intense earnestness of feeling, and, though faded and dimmed by the lapse of centuries, still stirs in some faint wise even the practiced dilettanti of our day.
The face upon the cross, with its majestic patience, seemed to shed a blessing down on the company of saints of all ages who were grouped by their representative men at the foot. Saint Dominic, Saint Ambrose, Saint Augustin, Saint Jerome, Saint Francis, and Saint Benedict were depicted as standing before the Great Sacrifice in company with the Twelve Apostles, the two Maries, and the fainting mother of Jesus, — thus expressing the unity of the Church Universal in that great victory of sorrow and glory. The painting was enclosed above by a semicircular bordering composed of medallion heads of the Prophets, and below was a similar medallion border of the principal saints and worthies of the Dominican order. In our day such pictures are visited by tourists with red guide-books in their hands, who survey them in the intervals of careless conversation; but they were painted by the simple artist on his knees, weeping and praying as he worked, and the sight of them was accepted by like simple-hearted Christians as a perpetual sacrament of the eye, by which they received Christ into their souls.
So absorbed was the father in the contemplation of this picture, that he did not hear the approaching footsteps of the knight and monk. When at last they came so near as almost to touch him, he suddenly looked up, and it became apparent that his eyes were full of tears.
He rose, and, pointing with a mute gesture toward the painting, said, —
“There is more in that than in all Michel Angelo Buonarotti hath done yet, though he be a God-fearing youth, — more than in all the heathen marbles in Lorenzo’s gardens. But sit down with me here. I have to come here often, where I can refresh my courage.”
The monk and knight seated themselves, the latter with his attention riveted on the remarkable man before him. The head and face of Savonarola are familiar to us by many paintings and medallions, which, however, fail to impart what must have been that effect of his personal presence which so drew all hearts to him in his day. The knight saw a man of middle age, of elastic, well-knit figure, and a flexibility and grace of motion which seemed to make every nerve, even to his finger-ends, vital with the expression of his soul. The close-shaven crown and the plain white Dominican robe gave a severe and statuesque simplicity to the lines of his figure. His head and face, like those of most of the men of genius whom modern Italy has produced, were so strongly cast in the antique mould as to leave no doubt of the identity of modern Italian blood with that of the great men of ancient Italy. His low, broad forehead, prominent Roman nose, well-cut, yet fully outlined lips, and strong, finely moulded jaw and chin, all spoke the old Roman vigor and energy, while the flexible delicacy of all the muscles of his face and figure gave an inexpressible fascination to his appearance. Every emotion and changing thought seemed to flutter and tremble over his countenance as the shadow of leaves over sunny water.266 His eye had a wonderful dilating power, and when he was excited seemed to shower sparks; and his voice possessed a surprising scale of delicate and melodious inflections, which could take him in a moment through the whole range of human feeling, whether playful and tender or denunciatory and terrible. Yet, when in repose among his friends, there was an almost childlike simplici
ty and artlessness of manner which drew the heart by an irresistible attraction. At this moment it was easy to see by his pale cheek and the furrowed lines of his face that he had been passing through severe struggles; but his mind seemed stayed on some invisible centre, in a solemn and mournful calm.
“Come, tell me something of the good works of the Lord in our Italy, brother,” he said, with a smile which was almost playful in its brightness. “You have been through all the lowly places of the land, carrying our Lord’s bread to the poor, and repairing and beautifying shrines and altars by the noble gift that is in you.”
“Yes, father,” said the monk; “and I have found that there are many sheep of the Lord that feed quietly among the mountains of Italy, and love nothing so much as to hear of the dear Shepherd who laid down His life for them.”
“Even so, even so,” said the Superior, with animation; “and it is the thought of these sweet hearts that comforts me when my soul is among lions. The foundation standeth sure, — the Lord knoweth them that are his.”
“And it is good and encouraging,” said Father Antonio, “to see the zeal of the poor, who will give their last penny for the altar of the Lord, and who flock so to hear the word and take the sacraments. I have had precious seasons of preaching and confessing, and have worked in blessedness many days restoring and beautifying the holy pictures and statues whereby these little ones have been comforted. What with the wranglings of princes and the factions and disturbances in our poor Italy, there be many who suffer in want and loss of all things, so that no refuge remains to them but the altars of our Jesus, and none cares for them but He.”
“Brother,” said the Superior, “there be thousands of flowers fairer than man ever saw that grow up in waste places and in deep dells and shades of mountains; but God bears each one in his heart, and delighteth Himself in silence with them: and so doth He with these poor, simple, unknown souls. The True Church is not a flaunting queen who goes boldly forth among men displaying her beauties, but a veiled bride, a dove that is in the cleft of the rocks, whose voice is known only to the Beloved. Ah! when shall the great marriage-feast come, when all shall behold her glorified? I had hoped to see the day here in Italy: but now” —
The father stopped, and seemed to lapse into unconscious musing, — his large eye growing fixed and mysterious in its expression.
“The brothers have been telling me somewhat of the tribulations you have been through,” said Father Antonio, who thought he saw a good opening to introduce the subject nearest his heart.
“No more of that! — no more!” said the Superior, turning away his head with an expression of pain and weariness, “rather let us look up. What think you, brother, are all these doing now?” he said, pointing to the saints in the picture. “They are all alive and well, and see clearly through our darkness.” Then, rising up, he added, solemnly, “Whatever man may say or do, it is enough for me to feel that my dearest Lord and his blessed Mother and all the holy archangels, the martyrs and prophets and apostles, are with me. The end is coming.”
“But, dearest father,” said Antonio, “think you the Lord will suffer the wicked to prevail?”
“It may be for a time,” said Savonarola. “As for me, I am in His hands only as an instrument. He is master of the forge and handles the hammer, and when He has done using it He casts it from Him. Thus He did with Jeremiah, whom He permitted to be stoned to death when his preaching mission was accomplished; and thus He may do with this hammer when He has done using it.”
At this moment a monk rushed into the room with a face expressive of the utmost terror, and called out, —
“Father, what shall we do? The mob are surrounding the convent! Hark! hear them at the doors!”
In truth, a wild, confused roar of mingled shrieks, cries, and blows came in through the open door of the apartment; and the pattering sound of approaching footsteps was heard like showering rain-drops along the cloisters.
“Here come Messer Nicolo de’ Lapi, and Francesco Valori!” called out a voice.
The room was soon filled with a confused crowd, consisting of distinguished Florentine citizens, who had gained admittance through a secret passage, and the excited novices and monks.
“The streets outside the convent are packed close with men,” cried one of the citizens; “they have stationed guards everywhere to cut off our friends who might come to help us.”
“I saw them seize a young man who was quietly walking, singing psalms, and slay him on the steps of the Church of the Innocents,” said another; “they cried and hooted, ‘No more psalm-singing!’”
“And there’s Arnolfo Battista,” said a third;—”he went out to try to speak to them, and they have killed him, — cut him down with their sabres.”
“Hurry! hurry! barricade the door! arm yourselves!” was the cry from other voices.
“Shall we fight, father? Shall we defend ourselves?” cried others, as the monks pressed around their Superior.
When the crowd first burst into the room, the face of the Superior flushed, and there was a slight movement of surprise; then he seemed to recollect himself, and murmuring, “I expected this, but not so soon,” appeared lost in mental prayer. To the agitated inquiries of his flock, he answered, “No, brothers; the weapons of monks must be spiritual, not carnal.” Then lifting on high a crucifix, he said, “Come with me, and let us walk in solemn procession to the altar, singing the praises of our God.”
The monks, with the instinctive habit of obedience, fell into procession behind their leader, whose voice, clear and strong, was heard raising the Psalm, “Quare fremunt gentes:” —
“Why do the heathen rage, and the people imagine a vain thing?
“The kings of the earth set themselves, and the rulers take counsel together, against the Lord, and against his Anointed, saying, —
“Let us break their bands asunder, and cast away their cords from us.
“He that sitteth in the heavens shall laugh: the Lord shall have them in derision.”
As one voice after another took up the chant, the solemn enthusiasm rose and deepened, and all present, whether ecclesiastics or laymen, fell into the procession and joined in the anthem. Amid the wild uproar, the din and clatter of axes, the thunders of heavy battering-implements on the stone walls and portals, came this long-drawn solemn wave of sound, rising and falling, — now drowned in the savage clamors of the mob, and now bursting out clear and full like the voices of God’s chosen amid the confusion and struggles of all the generations of this mortal life.
White-robed and grand the procession moved on, while the pictured saints and angels on the walls seemed to smile calmly down upon them from a golden twilight. They passed thus into the sacristy, where with all solemnity and composure they arrayed their Father and Superior for the last time in his sacramental robes, and then, still chanting, followed him to the high altar, where all bowed in prayer. And still, whenever there was a pause in the stormy uproar and fiendish clamor, might be heard the clear, plaintive uprising of that strange singing, “O Lord, save thy people, and bless thine heritage!”
It needs not to tell in detail what history has told of that tragic night: how the doors at last were forced, and the mob rushed in; how citizens and friends, and many of the monks themselves, their instinct of combativeness overcoming their spiritual beliefs, fought valiantly, and used torches and crucifixes for purposes little contemplated when they were made.
Fiercest among the combatants was Agostino, who three times drove back the crowd as they were approaching the choir, where Savonarola and his immediate friends were still praying. Father Antonio, too, seized a sword from the hand of a fallen man and laid about him with an impetuosity which would be inexplicable to any who do not know what force there is in gentle natures when the objects of their affections are assailed. The artist monk fought for his master with the blind desperation with which a woman fights over the cradle of her child.
All in vain! Past midnight, and the news comes
that artillery is planted to blow down the walls of the convent, and the magistracy, who up to this time have lifted not a finger to repress the tumult, send word to Savonarola to surrender himself to them, together with the two most active of his companions, Fra Domenico da Pescia and Fra Silvestro Maruffi, as the only means of averting the destruction of the whole order. They offer him assurances of protection and safe return, which he does not in the least believe: nevertheless, he feels that his hour is come, and gives himself up.
His preparations were all made with a solemn method which showed that he felt he was approaching the last act in the drama of life. He called together his flock, scattered and forlorn, and gave them his last words of fatherly advice, encouragement, and comfort, — ending with the remarkable declaration, “A Christian’s life consists in doing good and suffering evil.” “I go with joy to this marriage-supper,” he said, as he left the church for the last sad preparations. He and his doomed friends then confessed and received the sacrament, and after that he surrendered himself into the hands of the men who he felt in his prophetic soul had come to take him to torture and to death.
As he gave himself into their hands, he said, “I commend to your care this flock of mine, and these good citizens of Florence who have been with us;” and then once more turning to his brethren, said, “Doubt not, my brethren. God will not fail to perfect His work. Whether I live or die, He will aid and console you.”
At this moment there was a struggle with the attendants in the outer circle of the crowd, and the voice of Father Antonio was heard crying out earnestly, “Do not hold me! I will go with him! I must go with him!”
Complete Works of Harriet Beecher Stowe Page 189