FLORENCE AND HER PROPHET
It was drawing towards evening, as two travelers, approaching Florence
from the south, checked their course on the summit of one of the circle
of hills which command a view of the city, and seemed to look down upon
it with admiration. One of these was our old friend Father Antonio,
and the other the cavalier. The former was mounted on an ambling mule,
whose easy pace suited well with his meditative habits; while the other
reined in a high-mettled steed, who, though now somewhat jaded under
the fatigue of a long journey, showed by a series of little lively
motions of his ears and tail, and by pawing the ground impatiently,
that he had the inexhaustible stock of spirits which goes with good
blood.
"There she lies, my Florence," said the monk, stretching his hands out
with enthusiasm. "Is she not indeed a sheltered lily growing fair among
the hollows of the mountains? Little she may be, sir, compared to old
Rome; but every inch of her is a gem,--every inch!"
And, in truth, the scene was worthy of the artist's enthusiasm. All
the overhanging hills that encircle the city with their silvery
olive-gardens and their pearl-white villas were now lighted up with
evening glory. The old gray walls of the convents of San Miniato and
the Monte Oliveto were touched with yellow; and even the black obelisks
of the cypresses in their cemeteries had here and there streaks and
dots of gold, fluttering like bright birds among their gloomy branches.
The distant snow-peaks of the Apennines, which even in spring long
wear their icy mantles, were shimmering and changing like an opal ring
with tints of violet, green, blue, and rose, blended in inexpressible
softness by that dreamy haze which forms the peculiar feature of
Italian skies.
In this loving embrace of mountains lay the city, divided by the Arno
as by a line of rosy crystal barred by the graceful arches of its
bridges. Amid the crowd of palaces and spires and towers rose central
and conspicuous the great Duomo, just crowned with that magnificent
dome which was then considered a novelty and a marvel in architecture,
and which Michel Angelo looked longingly back upon when he was going
to Rome to build that more wondrous orb of Saint Peter's. White and
stately by its side shot up the airy shaft of the Campanile; and the
violet vapor swathing the whole city in a tender indistinctness, these
two striking objects, rising by their magnitude far above it, seemed to
stand alone in a sort of airy grandeur.
And now the bells of the churches were sounding the Ave Maria, filling
the air with sweet and solemn vibrations, as if angels were passing
to and fro overhead, harping as they went; and ever and anon the
great bell of the Campanile came pulsing in with a throb of sound of
a quality so different that one hushed one's breath to hear. It might
be fancied to be the voice of one of those kingly archangels that one
sees drawn by the old Florentine religious artists,--a voice grave and
unearthly, and with a plaintive undertone of divine mystery.
The monk and the cavalier bent low in their saddles, and seemed to join
devoutly in the worship of the hour.
One need not wonder at the enthusiasm of the returning pilgrim of
those days for the city of his love, who feels the charm that lingers
around that beautiful place even in modern times. Never was there a
spot to which the heart could insensibly grow with a more home-like
affection,--never one more thoroughly consecrated in every stone by
the sacred touch of genius.
A republic, in the midst of contending elements, the history of
Florence, in the Middle Ages, was a history of what shoots and blossoms
the Italian nature might send forth, when rooted in the rich soil
of liberty. It was a city of poets and artists. Its statesmen, its
merchants, its common artisans, and the very monks in its convents,
were all pervaded by one spirit. The men of Florence in its best
days were men of a large, grave, earnest mould. What the Puritans
of New England wrought out with severest earnestness in their
reasonings and their lives, these early Puritans of Italy embodied
in poetry, sculpture, and painting. They built their Cathedral and
their Campanile, as the Jews of old built their Temple, with awe and
religious fear, that they might thus express by costly and imperishable
monuments their sense of God's majesty and beauty. The modern traveler
who visits the churches and convents of Florence, or the museums
where are preserved the fading remains of its early religious Art, if
he be a person of any sensibility, cannot fail to be affected with
the intense gravity and earnestness which pervade them. They seem
less to be paintings for the embellishment of life than eloquent
picture-writing by which burning religious souls sought to preach the
truths of the invisible world to the eye of the multitude. Through all
the deficiencies of perspective, coloring, and outline incident to the
childhood and early youth of Art, one feels the passionate purpose
of some lofty soul to express ideas of patience, self-sacrifice,
adoration, and aspiration far transcending the limits of mortal
capability.
The angels and celestial beings of these grave old painters are as
different from the fat little pink Cupids or lovely laughing children
of Titian and Correggio as are the sermons of President Edwards from
the love-songs of Tom Moore. These old seers of the pencil give you
grave, radiant beings, strong as man, fine as woman, sweeping downward
in lines of floating undulation, and seeming by the ease with which
they remain poised in the air to feel none of that earthly attraction
which draws material bodies earthward. Whether they wear the morning
star on their forehead or bear the lily or the sword in their hand,
there is still that suggestion of mystery and power about them, that
air of dignity and repose, that speak the children of a nobler race
than ours. One could well believe such a being might pass in his serene
poised majesty of motion through the walls of a gross material dwelling
without deranging one graceful fold of his swaying robe or unclasping
the hands folded quietly on his bosom. Well has a modern master of art
and style said of these old artists, "Many pictures are ostentatious
exhibitions of the artist's power of speech, the clear and vigorous
elocution of useless and senseless words; while the earlier efforts of
Giotto and Cimabue are the burning messages of prophecy delivered by
the stammering lips of infants."
But at the time of which we write, Florence had passed through her
ages of primitive religious and republican simplicity, and was fast
hastening to her downfall. The genius, energy, and prophetic enthusiasm
of Savonarola had made, it is true, a desperate rally on the verge of
the precipice; but no one man has ever power to turn back the downward
slide of a whole generation.
When Father Antonio left Sorrento in company with the cavalier, it
was the intention of the latter to go with him only so far as their
respective routes should lie together. The band under the command of
Agostino was posted in a ruined fortress in one of those airily perched
old mountain-towns which form so picturesque and characteristic a
feature of the Italian landscape. But before they reached this spot,
the simple, poetic, guileless monk, with his fresh artistic nature,
had so won upon his traveling companion that a most enthusiastic
friendship had sprung up between them, and Agostino could not find it
in his heart at once to separate from him. Tempest-tossed and homeless,
burning with a sense of wrong, alienated from the faith of his fathers
through his intellect and moral sense, yet clinging to it with his
memory and imagination, he found in the tender devotional fervor of
the artist monk a reconciling and healing power. He shared, too, in
no small degree, the feelings which now possessed the breast of his
companion for the great reformer whose purpose seemed to meditate
nothing less than the restoration of the Church of Italy to the
primitive apostolic simplicity. He longed to see him,--to listen to the
eloquence of which he had heard so much. Then, too, he had thoughts
that but vaguely shaped themselves in his mind. This noble man, so
brave and courageous, menaced by the forces of a cruel tyranny, might
he not need the protection of a good sword? He recollected, too, that
he had an uncle high in the favor of the King of France, to whom he had
written a full account of his own situation. Might he not be of use in
urging this uncle to induce the French King to throw before Savonarola
the shield of his protection? At all events, he entered Florence this
evening with the burning zeal of a young neophyte who hopes to effect
something himself for a glorious and sacred cause embodied in a leader
who commands his deepest veneration.
"My son," said Father Antonio, as they raised their heads after the
evening prayer, "I am at this time like a man who, having long been
away from his home, fears, on returning, that he shall hear some evil
tidings of those he hath left. I long, yet dread, to go to my dear
Father Girolamo and the beloved brothers in our house. There is a
presage that lies heavy on my heart, so that I cannot shake it off.
Look at our glorious old Duomo;--doth she not sit there among the
houses and palaces as a queen-mother among nations,--worthy, in her
greatness and beauty, to represent the Church of the New Jerusalem, the
Bride of the Lord? Ah, I have seen it thronged and pressed with the
multitude who came to crave the bread of life from our master!"
"Courage, my friend!" said Agostino; "it cannot be that Florence
will suffer her pride and glory to be trodden down. Let us hasten
on, for the shades of evening are coming fast, and there is a keen
wind sweeping down from your snowy mountains." And the two soon found
themselves plunging into the shadows of the streets, threading their
devious way to the convent.
At length they drew up before a dark wall, where the Father Antonio
rung a bell.
A door was immediately opened, a cowled head appeared, and a cautious
voice asked,--
"Who is there?"
"Ah, is that you, good Brother Angelo?" said Father Antonio, cheerily.
"And is it you, dear Brother Antonio? Come in! come in!" was the
cordial response, as the two passed into the court; "truly, it will
make all our hearts leap to see you."
"And, Brother Angelo, how is our dear father? I have been so anxious
about him!"
"Oh, fear not!--he sustains himself in God, and is full of sweetness to
us all."
"But do the people stand by him, Angelo, and the Signoria?"
"He has strong friends as yet, but his enemies are like ravening
wolves. The Pope hath set on the Franciscans, and they hunt him as
dogs do a good stag. But whom have you here with you?" added the monk,
raising his torch and regarding the knight.
"Fear him not; he is a brave knight and good Christian, who comes to
offer his sword to our father and seek his counsels."
"He shall be welcome," said the porter, cheerfully. "We will have you
into the refectory forthwith, for you must be hungry."
The young cavalier, following the flickering torch of his conductor,
had only a dim notion of long cloistered corridors, out of which now
and then, as the light flared by, came a golden gleam from some quaint
old painting, where the pure angel forms of Angelico stood in the
gravity of an immortal youth, or the Madonna, like a bending lily,
awaited the message of Heaven; but when they entered the refectory, a
cheerful voice addressed them, and Father Antonio was clasped in the
embrace of the father so much beloved.
"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.