In 1493 the rumor spread and became louder and louder that Charles the
Eighth of France was about to cross the Alps with a mighty army; and
the Italian populations, accustomed, since Italy had ceased to be the
heart of the Roman empire, to look for an arbitrator from afar, began
vaguely to regard his coming as a means of avenging their wrongs and
redressing their grievances.
And in that rumor Savonarola had heard the assurance that his prophecy
was being verified. What was it that filled the ears of the prophets
of old but the distant tread of foreign armies, coming to do the work
of justice? He no longer looked vaguely to the horizon for the coming
storm: he pointed to the rising cloud. The French army was that new
deluge which was to purify the earth from iniquity; the French King,
Charles VIII, was the instrument elected by God as Cyrus had been of
old, and all men who desired good rather than evil were to rejoice in
his coming. For the scourge would fall destructively on the impenitent
alone. Let any city of Italy, let Florence above all--Florence beloved
of God, since to its ear the warning voice had been specially
sent--repent and turn from its ways like Nineveh of old, and the storm
cloud would roll over it and leave only refreshing rain-drops.
Fra Girolamo's word was powerful; yet now that the new Cyrus had
already been three months in Italy, and was not far from the gates of
Florence, his presence was expected there with mixed feelings, in
which fear and distrust certainly predominated. At present it was not
understood that he had redressed any grievances; and the Florentines
clearly had nothing to thank him for. He held their strong frontier
fortresses, which Piero de' Medici had given up to him without
securing any honorable terms in return; he had done nothing to quell
the alarming revolt of Pisa, which had been encouraged by his presence
to throw off the Florentine yoke; and "orators," even with a prophet
at their head, could win no assurance from him, except that he would
settle everything when he was once within the walls of Florence.
Still, there was the satisfaction of knowing that the exasperating
Piero de' Medici had been fairly pelted out for the ignominious
surrender of the fortresses, and in that act of energy the spirit of
the Republic had recovered some of its old fire.
The preparations for the equivocal guest were not entirely those of a
city resigned to submission. Behind the bright drapery and banners
symbolical of joy, there were preparations of another sort made with
common accord by government and people. Well hidden within walls there
were hired soldiers of the Republic, hastily called in from the
surrounding districts; there were old arms duly furbished, and sharp
tools and heavy cudgels laid carefully at hand, to be snatched up on
short notice; there were excellent boards and stakes to form
barricades upon occasion, and a good supply of stones to make a
surprising hail from the upper windows. Above all, there were people
very strongly in the humor for fighting any personage who might be
supposed to have designs of hectoring over them, they having lately
tasted that new pleasure with much relish. This humor was not
diminished by the sight of occasional parties of Frenchmen, coming
beforehand to choose their quarters, with a hawk, perhaps, on their
left wrist, and metaphorically speaking, a piece of chalk in their
right hand to mark Italian doors withal; especially as creditable
historians imply that many sons of France were at that time
characterized by something approaching to a swagger, which must have
whetted the Florentine appetite for a little stone-throwing.
And this was the temper of Florence on the morning of the 17th of
November, 1494.
* * * * *
The sky was gray, but that made little difference in the Piazza del
Duomo, which was covered with its holiday sky of blue drapery, and its
constellations of yellow lilies and coats of arms. The sheaves of
banners were unfurled at the angles of the Baptistery, but there was
no carpet yet on the steps of the Duomo, for the marble was being
trodden by numerous feet that were not at all exceptional. It was the
hour of the Advent sermons, and the very same reasons which had
flushed the streets with holiday color were reasons why the preaching
in the Duomo could least of all be dispensed with.
But not all the feet in the Piazza were hastening towards the steps.
People of high and low degree were moving to and fro with the brisk
pace of men who had errands before them; groups of talkers were
thickly scattered, some willing to be late for the sermon, and others
content not to hear it at all.
The expression on the faces of these apparent loungers was not that of
men who are enjoying the pleasant laziness of an opening holiday. Some
were in close and eager discussion; others were listening with keen
interest to a single spokesman, and yet from time to time turned round
with a scanning glance at any new passer-by. At the corner looking
towards the Via de' Cerrettani--just where the artificial rainbow
light of the Piazza ceased, and the gray morning fell on the sombre
stone houses--there was a remarkable cluster of the working people,
most of them bearing on their dress or persons the signs of their
daily labor, and almost all of them carrying some weapon, or some tool
which might serve as a weapon upon occasion. Standing in the gray
light of the street, with bare brawny arms and soiled garments, they
made all the more striking the transition from the brightness of the
Piazza. They were listening to the thin notary, Ser Cioni, who had
just paused on his way to the Duomo. His biting words could get only a
contemptuous reception two years and a half before in the Mercato; but
now he spoke with the more complacent humor of a man whose party is
uppermost, and who is conscious of some influence with the people.
"Never talk to me," he was saying in his incisive voice, "never talk
to me of bloodthirsty Swiss or fierce French infantry; they might as
well be in the narrow passes of the mountains as in our streets; and
peasants have destroyed the finest armies of our condottieri in time
past, when they had once got them between steep precipices. I tell
you, Florentines need be afraid of no army in their own streets."
"That's true, Ser Cioni," said a man whose arms and hands were
discolored by crimson dye, which looked like blood-stains, and who had
a small hatchet stuck in his belt; "and those French cavaliers who
came in squaring themselves in their smart doublets the other day, saw
a sample of the dinner we could serve up for them. I was carrying my
cloth in Ognissanti, when I saw my fine Messeri going by, looking
round as if they thought the houses of the Vespucci and the Agli a
poor pick of loadings for them, and eyeing us Florentines, like
top-knotted cocks as they are, as if they pitied us because we didn't
know how to strut. 'Yes, my fine _Galli_,' says I, 'stick out your
stomachs; I've got a meat-axe in my belt that will go inside you all
the easier;' when presently the old cow lowed,[A] and I knew something
had happened--no matter what. So I threw my cloth in at the first
doorway, and took hold of my meat-axe and ran after my fine cavaliers
towards the Vigna Nuova. And, 'What is it, Guccio?' said I, when he
came up with me. 'I think it's the Medici coming back,' said Guccio.
_Bembe!_ I expected so! And up we reared a barricade, and the
Frenchmen looked behind and saw themselves in a trap; and up comes a
good swarm of our _Ciompi_,[B] and one of them with a big scythe he
had in his hand mowed off one of the fine cavaliers' feathers:--it's
true! And the lasses peppered a few stones down to frighten them.
However, Piero de' Medici wasn't come after all; and it was a pity;
for we'd have left him neither legs nor wings to go away with again."
"Well spoken, Oddo," said a young butcher, with his knife at his belt;
"and it's my belief Piero will be a good while before he wants to come
back, for he looked as frightened as a hunted chicken when we hustled
and pelted him in the piazza. He's a coward, else he might have made a
better stand when he'd got his horsemen. But we'll swallow no Medici
any more, whatever else the French king wants to make us swallow."
"But I like not those French cannon they talk of," said Goro, none the
less fat for two years' additional grievances. "San Giovanni defend
us! If Messer Domeneddio means so well by us as your Frate says he
does, Ser Cioni, why shouldn't he have sent the French another way to
Naples?"
"Ay, Goro," said the dyer; "that's a question worth putting. Thou art
not such a pumpkin-head as I took thee for. Why, they might have gone
to Naples by Bologna, eh, Ser Cioni?--or if they'd gone to Arezzo--we
wouldn't have minded their going to Arezzo."
"Fools! It will be for the good and glory of Florence," Ser Cioni
began. But he was interrupted by the exclamation, "Look there!" which
burst from several voices at once, while the faces were all turned to
a party who were advancing along the Via de' Cerretani.
"It's Lorenzo Tornabuoni, and one of the French noblemen who are in
his house," said Ser Cioni, in some contempt at this interruption. "He
pretends to look well satisfied--that deep Tornabuoni--but he's a
Medicean in his heart; mind that."
The advancing party was rather a brilliant one, for there was not only
the distinguished presence of Lorenzo Tornabuoni, and the splendid
costume of the Frenchman with his elaborately displayed white linen
and gorgeous embroidery; there were two other Florentines of high
birth, in handsome dresses donned for the coming procession, and on
the left hand of the Frenchman was a figure that was not to be
eclipsed by any amount of intention or brocade--a figure we have often
seen before. He wore nothing but black, for he was in mourning; but
the black was presently to be covered by a red mantle, for he too was
to walk in procession as Latin Secretary to the Ten. Tito Melema had
become conspicuously serviceable in the intercourse with the French
guests, from his familiarity with Southern Italy and his readiness in
the French tongue, which he had spoken in his early youth; and he had
paid more than one visit to the French camp at Signa. The lustre of
good fortune was upon him; he was smiling, listening, and explaining,
with his usual graceful unpretentious ease, and only a very keen eye
bent on studying him could have marked a certain amount of change in
him which was not to be accounted for by the lapse of eighteen months.
It was that change which comes from the final departure of moral
youthfulness--from the distinct self-conscious adoption of a part in
life. The lines of the face were as soft as ever, the eyes as
pellucid; but something was gone--something as indefinable as the
changes in the morning twilight.
The Frenchman was gathering instructions concerning ceremonial before
riding back to Signa, and now he was going to have a final survey of
the Piazza del Duomo, where the royal procession was to pause for
religious purposes. The distinguished party attracted the notice of
all eyes as it entered the Piazza, but the gaze was not entirely
cordial and admiring; there were remarks not altogether allusive and
mysterious to the Frenchman's hoof-shaped shoes--delicate flattery of
royal superfluity in toes; and there was no care that certain
snarlings at "Mediceans" should be strictly inaudible. But Lorenzo
Tornabuoni possessed that power of dissembling annoyance which is
demanded in a man who courts popularity, and Tito, besides his natural
disposition to overcome ill-will by good-humor, had the unimpassioned
feeling of the alien towards names and details that move the deepest
passions of the native.
Arrived where they could get a good oblique view of the Duomo, the
party paused. The festoons and devices placed over the central doorway
excited some demur, and Tornabuoni beckoned to Piero di Cosimo, who,
as was usual with him at this hour, was lounging in front of Nello's
shop. There was soon an animated discussion, and it became highly
amusing from the Frenchman's astonishment at Piero's odd pungency of
statement, which Tito translated literally. Even snarling onlookers
became curious, and their faces began to wear the half-smiling,
half-humiliated expression of people who are not within hearing of the
joke which is producing infectious laughter. It was a delightful
moment for Tito, for he was the only one of the party who could have
made so amusing an interpreter, and without any disposition to
triumphant self-gratulation he reveled in the sense that he was an
object of liking--he basked in approving glances. The rainbow light
fell about the laughing group, and the grave church-goers had all
disappeared within the walls. It seemed as if the Piazza had been
decorated for a real Florentine holiday.
Meanwhile in the gray light of the unadorned streets there were
on-comers who made no show of linen and brocade, and whose humor was
far from merry. Here too the French dress and hoofed shoes were
conspicuous, but they were being pressed upon by a large and larger
number of non-admiring Florentines. In the van of the crowd were three
men in scanty clothing; each had his hands bound together by a cord,
and a rope was fastened round his neck and body in such a way that he
who held the extremity of the rope might easily check any rebellious
movement by the threat of throttling. The men who held the ropes were
French soldiers, and by broken Italian phrases and strokes from the
knotted end of the rope, they from time to time stimulated their
prisoners to beg. Two of them were obedient, and to every Florentine
they had encountered had held out their bound hands and said in
piteous tones:--
"For the love of God and the Holy Madonna, give us something towards
our ransom! We are Tuscans; we were made prisoners in Lunigiana."
But the third man remained obstinately silent under all the strokes of
the knotted cord. He was very different in aspect from his two fellow
prisoners. They were young and hardy, and in the scant clothing which
the avarice of their captors had left them, looked like vulgar, sturdy
mendicants. But he had passed the boundary of old age, and could
hardly be less than four or five and sixty. His beard, which had grown
long in neglect, and the hair which fell thick and straight round his
baldness, were nearly white. His thick-set figure was still firm and
upright, though emaciated, and seemed to express energy in spite of
age--an expression that was partly carried out in the dark eyes and
strong dark eyebrows, which had a strangely isolated intensity of
color in the midst of his yellow, bloodless, deep-wrinkled face with
its lank gray hairs. And yet there was something fitful in the eyes
which contradicted the occasional flash of energy; after looking round
with quick fierceness at windows and faces, they fell again with a
lost and wandering look. But his lips were motionless, and he held his
hands resolutely down. He would not beg.
This sight had been witnessed by the Florentines with growing
exasperation. Many standing at their doors or passing quietly along
had at once given money--some in half-automatic response to an appeal
in the name of God, others in that unquestioning awe of the French
soldiery which had been created by the reports of their cruel warfare,
and on which the French themselves counted as a guarantee of immunity
in their acts of insolence. But as the group had proceeded farther
into the heart of the city, that compliance had gradually disappeared,
and the soldiers found themselves escorted by a gathering troop of men
and boys, who kept up a chorus of exclamations sufficiently
intelligible to foreign ears without any interpreter. The soldiers
themselves began to dislike their position, for with a strong
inclination to use their weapons, they were checked by the necessity
for keeping a secure hold on their prisoners, and they were now
hurrying along in the hope of finding shelter in a hostelry.
"French dogs!" "Bullock-feet!" "Snatch their pikes from them!" "Cut
the cords and make them run for their prisoners. They'll run as fast
as geese--don't you see they're web-footed?" These were the cries
which the soldiers vaguely understood to be jeers, and probably
threats. But every one seemed disposed to give invitations of this
spirited kind rather than to act upon them.
"Santiddio! here's a sight!" said the dyer, as soon as he had divined
the meaning of the advancing tumult; "and the fools do nothing but
hoot. Come along!" he added, snatching his axe from his belt, and
running to join the crowd, followed by the butcher and all the rest of
his companions except Goro, who hastily retreated up a narrow passage.
The sight of the dyer, running forward with blood-red arms and axe
uplifted, and with his cluster of rough companions behind him, had a
stimulating effect on the crowd. Not that he did anything else than
pass beyond the soldiers and thrust himself well among his
fellow-citizens, flourishing his axe; but he served as a stirring
symbol of street-fighting, like the waving of a well-known gonfalon.
And the first sign that fire was ready to burst out was something as
rapid as a little leaping tongue of flame; it was an act of the
conjurer's impish lad Lollo, who was dancing and jeering in front of
the ingenuous boys that made the majority of the crowd. Lollo had no
great compassion for the prisoners, but being conscious of an
excellent knife which was his unfailing companion, it had seemed to
him from the first that to jump forward, cut a rope, and leap back
again before the soldier who held it could use his weapon, would be an
amusing and dexterous piece of mischief. And now, when the people
began to hoot and jostle more vigorously, Lollo felt that his moment
was come: he was close to the eldest prisoner; in an instant he had
cut the cord.
"Run, old one!" he piped in the prisoner's ear, as soon as the cord
was in two; and himself set the example of running as if he were
helped along with wings, like a scared fowl.
The prisoner's sensations were not too slow for him to seize the
opportunity; the idea of escape had been continually present with him,
and he had gathered fresh hope from the temper of the crowd. He ran at
once; but his speed would hardly have sufficed for him if the
Florentines had not instantaneously rushed between him and his captor.
He ran on into the Piazza, but he quickly heard the tramp of feet
behind him, for the other two prisoners had been released, and the
soldiers were struggling and fighting their way after them, in such
tardigrade fashion as their hoof-shaped shoes would allow--impeded,
but not very resolutely attacked, by the people. One of the two
younger prisoners turned up the Borgo di San Lorenzo, and thus made a
partial diversion of the hubbub; but the main struggle was still
towards the Piazza, where all eyes were turned on it with alarmed
curiosity. The cause could not be precisely guessed, for the French
dress was screened by the impending crowd.
"An escape of prisoners," said Lorenzo Tornabuoni, as he and his party
turned round just against the steps of the Duomo, and saw a prisoner
rushing by them. "The people are not content with having emptied the
Bargello the other day. If there is no other authority in sight they
must fall on the _sbirri_ and secure freedom to thieves. Ah! there is
a French soldier; that is more serious."
The soldier he saw was struggling along on the north side of the
Piazza, but the object of his pursuit had taken the other direction.
That object was the eldest prisoner, who had wheeled round the
Baptistery and was running towards the Duomo, determined to take
refuge in that sanctuary rather than trust to his speed. But in
mounting the steps, his foot received a shock; he was precipitated
towards the group of signori, whose backs were turned to him, and was
only able to recover his balance as he clutched one of them by the
arm.
It was Tito Melema who felt that clutch. He turned his head, and saw
the face of his adoptive father, Baldassarre Calvo, close to his own.
The two men looked at each other, silent as death: Baldassarre, with
dark fierceness and a tightening grip of the soiled worn hands on the
velvet-clad arm; Tito, with cheeks and lips all bloodless, fascinated
by terror. It seemed a long while to them--it was but a moment.
The first sound Tito heard was the short laugh of Piero di Cosimo, who
stood close by him and was the only person that could see his face.
"Ha, ha! I know what a ghost should be now."
"This is another escaped prisoner," said Lorenzo Tornabuoni. "Who is
he, I wonder?"
"_Some madman, surely_," said Tito.
He hardly knew how the words had come to his lips: there are moments
when our passions speak and decide for us, and we seem to stand by and
wonder. They carry in them an inspiration of crime, that in one
instant does the work of premeditation.
The two men had not taken their eyes off each other, and it seemed to
Tito, when he had spoken, that some magical poison had darted from
Baldassarre's eyes, and that he felt it rushing through his viens. But
the next instant the grasp on his arm had relaxed, and Baldassarre had
disappeared within the church.
"OH, MAY I JOIN THE CHOIR INVISIBLE"
Oh, may I join the choir invisible
Of those immortal dead who live again
In minds made better by their presence; live
In pulses stirred to generosity,
In deeds of daring rectitude, in scorn
For miserable aims that end with self,
In thoughts sublime that pierce the night like stars,
And with their mild persistence urge man's search
To vaster issues.
So to live is heaven:
To make undying music in the world,
Breathing as beauteous order, that controls
With growing sway the growing life of man.
So we inherit that sweet purity
For which we struggled, failed, and agonized,
With widening retrospect that bred despair.
Rebellious flesh that would not be subdued,
A vicious parent shaming still its child,--
Poor anxious penitence,--is quick dissolved;
Its discords, quenched by meeting harmonies,
Die in the large and charitable air;
And all our rarer, better, truer self,
That sobbed religiously in yearning song,
That watched to ease the burthen of the world,
Laboriously tracing what must be,
And what may yet be better--saw within
A worthier image for the sanctuary,
And shaped it forth before the multitude
Divinely human, raising worship so
To higher reverence more mixed with love--
That better self shall live till human Time
Shall fold its eyelids, and the human sky
Be gathered like a scroll within the tomb
Unread for ever.
This is life to come,
Which martyred men have made more glorious
For us who strive to follow. May I reach
That purest heaven; be to other souls
The cup of strength in some great agony;
Enkindle generous ardor; feed pure love;
Beget the smiles that have no cruelty--
Be the sweet presence of a good diffused,
And in diffusion even more intense.
So shall I join the choir invisible
Whose music is the gladness of the world.