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. 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 simplicity 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!"
"Son," said Savonarola, "I charge you on your obedience not to come. It
is I and Fra Domenico who are to die for the love of Christ." And thus,
at the ninth hour of the night, he passed the threshold of San Marco.
As he was leaving, a plaintive voice of distress was heard from a young
novice who had been peculiarly dear to him, who stretched his hands
after him, crying, "Father! father! why do you leave us desolate?"
Whereupon he turned back a moment, and said, "God will be your help.
If we do not see each other again in this world, we surely shall in
heaven."
When the party had gone forth, the monks and citizens stood looking
into each other's faces, listening with dismay to the howl of wild
ferocity that was rising around the departing prisoner.
"What shall we do?" was the outcry from many voices.
"I know what I shall do," said Agostino. "If any man here will find me
a fleet horse, I will start for Milan this very hour; for my uncle is
now there on a visit, and he is a counselor of weight with the King of
France: we must get the King to interfere."
"Good! good! good!" rose from a hundred voices.
"I will go with you," said Father Antonio. "I shall have no rest till I
do something."
"And I," quoth Jacopo Niccolini, "will saddle for you, without delay,
two horses of part Arabian blood, swift of foot, and easy, and which
will travel day and night without sinking."