THE BONFIRE OF VANITIES--1496
'_Dov' è più sentimento, li è più, ne' martiri, gran martire._'
LEONARDO DA VINCI.
(He who feels most, is the greatest of the martyrs.)
'A double-minded man is unstable in all his ways.'
ST. JAMES i. 8.
I
More than a year had passed since Giovanni Boltraffio had been received
as a novice in the Convent of San Marco.
On a winter's day towards the close of the carnival of 1496, shortly
after noon, Fra Girolamo was writing the account of a vision which had
lately appeared to him. He had seen two crosses waving above the city of
Rome, one black and enveloped in storm, inscribed--'The Cross of the
fury of the Lord'; the other of gleaming azure, with the
inscription--'The Cross of the Lord's mercy.'
February sunshine flooded the narrow cell with its white and naked
walls, great black crucifix, and the thick parchment books in antique
leather. Now and then from the blue sky came the joyous twitter of the
swallows.
Fra Girolamo felt unwonted weariness, and now and then trembled. Laying
down his pen, he dropped his head on his hands, closed his eyes, and
meditated upon what he had that morning heard about Pope Alexander VI.
from Fra Paolo, a monk who had been on a secret mission to Rome.
Monstrous images like those described in the Apocalypse passed and
whirled before the mind of the prior; he saw the blood-stained bull of
the shield of the Borgias, reminding him of Apis, the heathen god; the
golden calf borne before the pontiff instead of the humble Lamb of God;
nightly orgies at the Vatican in the presence of the Holy Father, of his
favourite daughter, and of the College of Cardinals; the beautiful
Giulia Farnese, mistress of the sexagenarian pope, and the model for
contemporary portraits of the saints; his two sons, Cesare the young
Cardinal of Valenza, and Giovanni the Duke of Candia, who out of
criminal love for Lucrezia their sister, hated each other to the point
of fratricide. And haunted by what Fra Paolo had scarcely dared to
whisper, the tale of the strange relations between the pope and this
Lucrezia his daughter, Girolamo trembled.
'But no, 'tis calumny. It were too great an enormity! God sees that I
cannot believe it,' he murmured.
But in the depths of his soul he felt that nothing was impossible in
that terrible nest of the Borgias, and drops of cold sweat stood out
upon his forehead. He had fallen on his knees before the crucifix, when
a low knocking was heard at the door of his cell.
'Who is it?'
'It is I, father.'
He recognized the voice of his trusty friend, Fra Domenico Buonvicino.
'Ricciardo Becchi, secret legate from the pope, prays for an audience.'
'Good. Let him wait. Meanwhile send me Fra Silvestro.'
Fra Silvestro Maruffi was epileptic and of weak intellect, but Fra
Girolamo, considering him a chosen vessel of the grace of God, both
loved and feared him. He interpreted Maruffi's visions according to the
precise rules of St. Thomas Aquinas and the Schoolmen, finding by
ingenuity, by the arguments of logic, by enthymemes, apophthegms, and
syllogisms, prophetical meaning in the vain babble of an idiot. Maruffi
showed no respect for his superior, insulted him publicly, and even
struck him; offences which Fra Girolamo received with the utmost
meekness. So that if the people of Florence were in the hands of
Savonarola, Savonarola was in the hands of the half-witted Maruffi.
Having entered, Fra Silvestro sat on the floor and scratched furiously
at his red and naked feet, chanting a monotonous song. His face was
freckled, with a sharp nose, and a hanging lower lip. His rheumy eyes of
a dull green were melancholy.
'Brother,' said Savonarola, 'the pope has sent me a secret messenger.
Tell me, shall I receive him? What should I say? Have you had any voice
or vision?'
Maruffi grimaced, barked and grunted. He had great gifts in the
imitation of animals.
'Beloved Brother,' said Savonarola, 'be kind! Speak! My soul faints
under the burden of mortal sadness. Pray God that He illuminate thee
with His spirit of prophecy.'
The other opened wide his mouth and rolled his tongue; his face was
strangely contorted; and he burst out angrily:
'Why should you trouble me, you tedious talker, you sheep's-head, you
brainless quail? May the rats devour your nose! You have made your
bed--lie on it. I am neither prophet nor councillor.'
He paused, looked at Savonarola from under his scowling eyebrows, and
continued more quietly:--
'Brother, I'm sorry for you! But as for my visions, how know you if they
come from God or from the devil?'
Silvestro closed his eyes. His countenance took an expression of repose.
Savonarola held his breath in holy expectancy.
Suddenly Maruffi opened his eyes, slowly turned his head like one
listening, looked out of the window, and a smile of good nature, peace,
almost of intelligence, brightened his face.
'The birds!' he said; 'do you hear the birds? To be sure, the grass is
springing in the meadows, and the first little yellow flowers! 'Tis
enough. It's time to think of God now. Come! let us flee this sinful
world; let us flee together to the desert!' And rocking himself, he
began to sing in a sweet, lazy voice.
Suddenly he sprang to his feet, ran to Savonarola, seized his hand and
cried, choking with excitement:--
'I have seen--I have seen--May the rats devour your nose! You head of an
ass--I have seen----'
'Speak, dear brother; speak quickly!'
'Flames! Flames!' cried Maruffi.
'Well? And besides?'
'Flames rising from a stake, and in the midst of the flames a man----'
'Who?'
Nodding his head, and motioning with his hand, Silvestro did not reply
at once; then fixing his penetrating eyes on the other, he laughed
softly and foolishly, and murmured:--
'Thou!'
Fra Girolamo shuddered, paled, and drew back involuntarily. Maruffi
turned away, and shambled out of the cell, singing:--
'Hie we to the smiling woods,
The shy retreat of spring,
Where the streams unsealèd flow,
And the yellow-hammers sing!'
Recovering himself, Fra Girolamo gave orders to admit His Magnificence
Ricciardo Becchi.
II
This man, Scriptor of the Papal Court of Chancery, entered Savonarola's
cell, rustling a long silk garment shaped like the habit of a monk, but
of the modish violet colour, and with hanging embroidered sleeves lined
with fox-skin, his whole person emitting a perfume of musk. The studied
grace of his movements, his pleasant and intelligent smile, his calm
eyes, his dimpled and well-shaven cheek, showed him a master of
dignified urbanity. He bent in a courtly reverence, kissed the hand of
the Prior of San Marco, and asked his blessing; then entered upon a long
speech in Latin beflowered with Ciceronianisms and resounding
sententiousness. He began with what in the rules of oratory is called
the appeal for goodwill, dilating upon the fame of the Florentine
preacher; then he gradually approached the mission entrusted to him. The
Holy Father, though righteously angered by Fra Girolamo's refusal to
present himself in Rome, nevertheless burning with zeal for the Church's
good, for the perfect union of the faithful in Christ, and for the peace
of the whole world, declared his fatherly readiness, in the event of Fra
Girolamo's repentance, to restore him to favour.
Savonarola raised his eyes and said very quietly:--
'Messere, what think you? do you believe that the Holy Father and our
lord has faith in Christ?'
Ricciardo allowed this unseemly question to pass without reply; he
continued to dilate on his mission, giving the prior to understand that
if he submitted himself, the red hat of a cardinal awaited him in Rome;
then, bowing a second time, and touching Savonarola's hand with his
lips, he added insinuatingly:--
'One little word, Father Girolamo, one little word, and the red hat is
yours.'
Savonarola fixed his unflinching eyes on the speaker, and said slowly:--
'And if I refuse to submit, Messere? If I refuse to hold my peace? If
the infatuated monk prefer to continue his barkings as the faithful
watch-dog of the house of God?'
Raising his eyebrows in a faint grimace, Messer Ricciardo looked at the
monk, then turned his eyes to his beautiful almond-shaped nails, and
adjusted his priceless rings. Presently he drew slowly from his pocket,
unfolded, and handed to the prior a bull of excommunication, to which
nothing was lacking but the papal seal. In it Savonarola was called the
son of perdition, 'the most contemptible of insects' _neauissimus
omnipedum_.
'And you are waiting for an answer?' asked the monk quietly, when he had
read the document.
The Scriptor assented with a light nod of his head.
Savonarola rose, and flung the bull at the feet of the emissary.
'There,' he said, 'there is my answer! Return to Rome and tell him who
has sent you that I accept his challenge. Minister of Antichrist! We
shall see whether he will excommunicate me, or whether it is I who shall
drive him out of the pale of the Church!'
The door of the cell was softly opened and showed the head of Fra
Domenico who, hearing the sonorous voice, was anxious to know what could
be taking place. The monks were massed round the entrance.
Messer Ricciardo, who had cast several furtive glances at the door, now
said politely:--
'May I remind you, Fra Girolamo, that I am charged only with a private
mission?'
Savonarola moved to the door, and throwing it wide he cried:--'Hear all
of ye; for not only to you but to the whole people of Florence I will
proclaim the infamous traffic which has been proposed to me, choice
between the cardinal's purple and the excommunication of the _Curia
Romana_!' Under his low forehead his sunken eyes shone like coals; his
ill-shaped lower jaw, trembling with wrath and almost satanic hatred and
pride.
'Yea, the hour has come! I will thunder against you, all ye prelates and
cardinals of Rome, even as once the holy fathers thundered against the
pagans. I will force the key of this unclean house; the Church of God,
which you have slain, shall hear my cry: "Lazarus, come forth!" and
shall raise its head and issue from its tomb! What need I your mitres
and your cardinal's hats? Give me the red hat of death; the
blood-stained crown of martyrdom!'
III
Among the monks who crowded to hear these words of Savonarola was the
novice, Giovanni Boltraffio. When the company had dispersed, he too
descended by the main staircase of the convent, and sat in his
accustomed spot under the portico, where at this hour reigned solitude
and calm.
The court was surrounded by the white monastery walls, and in it grew
laurels, cypresses, and a thicket of damask roses. Report said that
these roses were watered by angels. Fra Girolamo loved to preach amongst
them.
The novice opened the Epistle of St. Paul to the Corinthians, and read:
'Ye cannot drink the cup of the Lord and the cup of devils; ye cannot be
partakers of the Lord's table and of the table of devils.'
Then he rose and paced the cloister, recalling his thoughts and emotions
during the year he had spent within the walls of San Marco. After the
moral torture of the preceding months, he had at first experienced great
peace in this retreat among the disciples of Savonarola.
Sometimes Father Girolamo would lead them out beyond the confines of the
city. Following a steep path, which seemed to lead to heaven, they
climbed the heights of Fiesole, from whence the City of Flowers,
surrounded by smiling hills, appeared like some silver vision. The prior
would seat himself in a meadow, enamelled with iris, tulips, and
violets; the monks reclined in a circle round him, and talked and danced
and frolicked like so many children, or played on viols and citherns,
like those which the _beato Angelico_ placed in the hands of his angels,
circling as they sing in the choir of heaven. Fra Girolamo did not
preach nor play the master, but talked affectionately and took his part
in the games and laughter. And Giovanni, looking at the radiant smile on
his countenance, there on the retired Fiesole hill, under the heaven of
most pure azure, hearing the vibrating tones of the stringed
instruments, and the voices blended in holy song, fancied himself an
angel in the paradise of God. Sometimes at dawn Savonarola would walk to
the edge of the slope, and look down on his Florence, bathed in the
morning mist, even as a mother looks on her sleeping babe, and from
below would rise the first clanging of the bells announcing the
beginning of day, like the sleepy babble of a half-awakened child.
And on summer nights, when the fireflies moved through the embalmed air
like the torches of unseen angels, and the roses exhaled their mystic
odour in the convent-yard, Fra Girolamo would tell of the stigmata of
St. Francis, of the wounds, perfumed like roses, which her divine love
had impressed on the tender body of St. Catharine. The brethren sang:--
'Fac me plagis vulnerari,
Fac me Cruce inebriari,
Ob amorem Filii.'
And Giovanni would tremble in the anguished expectation of miracle--the
trembling hope that rays of fire, springing from the cup of the Holy
Sacrament, would burn his body likewise with the sacred wounds of the
Crucified. '_Gesù, Gesù mio, amore!_' he sighed, fainting in
voluptuous ecstasy.
Once the prior sent him on a mission to the Villa Carreggi, two miles
from Florence, where Lorenzo dei Medici had long sojourned, and at last
had died. In one of the deserted saloons, lit by a ghostly light coming
through the chinks of the shutters, Giovanni saw a picture of
Botticelli's, called 'The Birth of Venus.'
White as a water-lily, bedewed with the briny freshness of the sea,
standing on a pearly shell, the goddess floated over the waves, veiled
in the abundant gold of her serpentine tresses, which she gathered in
her hand. The fair naked body breathed the enticement of sin; yet was
there a strange pathos in the pure childlike lips and the innocent eyes.
Giovanni shuddered; for it seemed to him that the face of the goddess
was not new to him; he looked long at it, and remembered that he had
already seen that countenance, those ingenuous, dewy eyes, those
innocent lips with their tender sadness in another picture by that same
Botticelli--a picture of the Mother of God. Inexpressible consternation
filled his soul; he averted his eyes and fled from the villa.
Returning to Florence by a narrow lane, he saw at the angle of a
cross-way an ancient Rood, and he sank on his knees and prayed for the
driving from him of temptation. But at that moment came the trill of a
mandoline from the roses behind the wall; a voice cried out, then
murmured in a frightened whisper, 'No, no--leave me!' and another voice
replied, 'Beloved! Love!--my love!' and then the mandoline fell, and a
kiss was heard.
Giovanni sprang to his feet, reiterating, '_Gesù! Gesù_!' but this time
he dared not add '_amore_!'
'Here also is _she_!' he said; 'everywhere! in the face of the Madonna,
in the words of the holy hymns, in the breath of the roses which crown
the crucifix!'
And hiding his face in his hands he fled, as if escaping from an unseen
persecution.
Back in the convent, he went to Savonarola and told him all, and the
prior exhorted him to fight against the devil by fasting and by prayer;
and when the novice sought to explain that this torment was not the
temptation of fleshly lust, but the seduction breathing from all the
beauty of pagan antiquity, Savonarola, uncomprehending, at first showed
astonishment, then told him sternly that he lied in thinking there could
be aught in the pagan gods but concupiscence and pride. All beauty was
contained in the Christian virtues. And Giovanni, not having found the
looked-for comfort, from that day forth was possessed by the demons of
restlessness and revolt.
Once Boltraffio heard Fra Girolamo, discoursing on painting, insist that
every picture should have some moral utility for men, exciting them to
the practice of those ascetic virtues which alone are healthful for the
soul. And he added that the Florentines would do a work well-pleasing to
God if they should destroy, at the hands of the executioner, all those
images which entice to sin.
Then he went on to speak of knowledge:--'That man is a fool,' he said
'who conceives that by logic and by philosophy the truths of faith can
be confirmed. Does a strong light need the help of a weak one? or the
divine wisdom that of the human? Which of the apostles and the martyrs
studied philosophy and logic? An old woman who can neither read nor
write, but who prays fervently before the image of a saint, is nearer to
the knowledge of God than all the sages and philosophers of the world.
Neither logic nor science will stead them in the day of judgment: Homer
and Virgil, Plato and Aristotle, all go to their end in the house of the
devil; because, like the sirens, bewitching the ear with magic songs,
they draw souls to eternal ruin. Science gives men stones for bread,
and, verily, if you look at those who follow the teaching of this world,
you will find in them that even their hearts are become as stones.'
'Who knows little, loves little. Great love is the daughter of great
knowledge!' had said Leonardo da Vinci.
Only now did Giovanni realise the profundity of these words, as he
listened to the anathema of the monk against knowledge and art, and
remembered the wise reasonings of Leonardo, the calm of his countenance,
his cold look, his wise and enchanting smile. Not that he had forgotten
the poisoned tree, the Ear, the crane for the Holy Nail, but now he felt
that he had not fathomed the depth of his master's soul, had not
penetrated into the mysteries of his heart, nor untied the prime knot in
which all the threads must meet.
Such were the memories upon which Giovanni looked back at the end of his
first convent year. Deep in thought he paced the darkening cloister,
till the evening had fallen and the _Ave Maria_ rang through the dusk.
The monks wended to the chapel, but Giovanni remained outside, reseating
himself.
Then with a bitter smile he raised his eyes to the silent heaven, where
shone the evening star, the torch of Lucifer, the most beautiful of
angels, the bringer of light, son of the morning.
He returned to his cell and slept: towards the dawning he dreamed. And
in his dream he was with Monna Cassandra, astride of a black goat, and
fleeting through the morning air, 'To the Sabbath! to the Sabbath!'
cried the witch, turning to him her clear amber eyes; and he knew in her
the goddess of earthly love, she with the heavenly sadness in her
eyes--the _diavolessa bianca_. The full moon shone on her body. Sweet
odours almost overpowered him. His teeth chattered with desire and with
fear. '_Amore! Amore!_' she cried and laughed, and the black goat-skin
sank beneath them. Away! Away! they careered.
IV
Giovanni was awakened by the sun, by the sound of bells and of childish
voices. He dressed hurriedly, and descended into the court where was a
great crowd of people, and among them children all dressed in white, and
carrying olive-branches and small red crosses. It was 'The Sacred Legion
of the Child Inquisitors,' founded by Savonarola to watch over and
reform the purity of morals in the town. Giovanni mixed in the crowd,
and listened to their talk.
Then a wave passed over the ranks of the sacred troop; innumerable small
hands waved the olive-branches and the red crosses above their heads,
acclaiming Savonarola, who was entering, and a chorus of silver voices
intoned a psalm in his honour:--
'_Lumen ad revelationem gentium et gloriam plebis Israel._'
The children made a circle round the Prior, covering him with a rain of
violets and anemones, and they knelt before him, kissing his feet.
Illumined by a ray of the sun, silently, with a tender smile, the
worn-faced Savonarola blessed them.
'Long live Christ, King of Florence! Hallelujah to Christ, the King of
Florence. Hail Mary, Blessed Virgin, and our Queen!' shouted the young
voices.
The captains gave the order to march, drums beat, flags fluttered, and
the sacred troop moved off. For in the Piazza della Signoria was
prepared the pyre for the burning of the vanities, and the children were
once more to make the circuit of the city to collect 'vanities and
things under anathema.'
V
When the court was clear, Giovanni saw Messer Cipriano Buonaccorsi,
Master of the noble Guild of the Calimala, the lover of pagan
antiquities, on whose property by the Hill of the Mill the marble figure
of the goddess of Love had been found. They greeted each other warmly,
and spoke for some time. From Messer Cipriano Giovanni learned that
Leonardo had come from Milan, charged by the duke to purchase such works
of art as could escape the Legion of Children. Giorgio Merula was with
the painter. Presently Messer Cipriano asked Giovanni to conduct him to
Savonarola. The master of the Calimala entered Fra Girolamo's cell, and
Giovanni waiting outside heard their talk. Messer Cipriano offered
twenty-two thousand gold florins if he might buy all the books, the
pictures, the statues, and other treasures which were ordained for the
burning. Savonarola refused. Messer Cipriano increased his offer by
eight thousand florins. To this the Monk deigned no reply; only his
stern and rigid face became yet sterner and more rigid. Buonaccorsi's
toothless mouth quivered. He wrapped his fox-skin cloak round his
shivering knees; he sighed heavily, and closing his myopic eyes, he said
in his quiet voice: 'Well, Father Girolamo, I will ruin myself. I will
give you all I possess: forty thousand florins.'
Savonarola grimly raised his head. 'And what were your profit,' he
asked, 'if you ruined yourself?'
'I was born in this city,' replied Messer Cipriano. 'I love my land; and
for no condition in the world can I endure that we, like the barbarian
hordes, should destroy the masterpieces of wisdom and of art.'
'Would that thou didst love thy heavenly country as thou lovest thine
earthly one, my son!' exclaimed the Monk, turning on the old man a look
full of admiration; 'but be consoled, only things meet for burning shall
be burned. What induces to wickedness and vice cannot include anything
of beauty, as, indeed, your same wise ancients have said.'
'Alas, father!' returned the merchant, eagerly, 'are you certain that
babes can distinguish so precisely between the evil and the good?'
'Truth and innocency is in the mouth of babes. "Except ye become as
children ye cannot enter into the kingdom of heaven." Is it not written:
"I will destroy the wisdom of the wise, and will bring to nothing the
understanding of the prudent"? Messere, I pray day and night that God
may enlighten my babes, so that by His Holy Spirit their minds may be
opened to discover all the vanities of science and of art.'
'I beseech you to consider--perhaps even a part----'
'You are wasting your breath, messere. My decision is unalterable.'
Again Messer Cipriano's old lips moved, but Savonarola heard only one
word--'Madness!'
'Madness?' he echoed, his eyes flashing; 'and the golden calf of the
Borgias offered to the pope in his sacrilegious festivals--is that not
madness? And the elevation of the Holy Nail, to the glory of God, by a
diabolical machine at the command of an impious assassin and usurper--is
that not madness? You dance madly round the golden calf in honour of
your God, which is Mammon; let us, then, who are poor in spirit, be mad
in honour of our God, who is Christ Jesus the Crucified. You bemock the
monks who on the piazza dance around the cross. Wait! There are other
spectacles which wait for you. What will you wise men say when I lead
not only the monks, but the whole people of Florence, adults as well as
children, men and women, to dance around the Cross-Tree of Salvation, as
of old David danced before the Ark of the Covenant to the glory of the
Most High!'
VI
Leaving the prior's cell, Giovanni Boltraffio turned his steps towards
the Piazza della Signoria. In Via Larga he met the sacred troop. The
children had stopped a palanquin carried by black slaves, in which
reclined a woman gorgeously attired. A lapdog slept on her knee, a
parrot and a monkey were on perches by her side, the litter was followed
by servants and by guards. She was a courtesan, Lena Griffi, not long
come from Venice, one of those whom the most Serene Republic called
'_meretrix honesta_,' or playfully 'Mammola' (little dear); and whose
name in the placard, drawn up for the convenience of travellers, was set
down in large characters and in a place of honour at the top of the
list.
Lolling on her cushions like Cleopatra, or a Queen of Sheba, Lena was
reading a love-missive from a youthful bishop. Its postscript was a song
ending thus:--
'Listening to thy voice I rise
From this globe towards the skies,
Plato's Sphere of Ecstasies.'
The courtesan was meditating on a return sonnet, for she was an
accomplished versifier, and used to say that had it depended on herself,
she would gladly have passed her whole existence in the _Accademia degli
vomini virtuosi_--in the Academy of the Virtuous.
The sacred troop of children encircled the litter. Dolfo, the leader of
one of the bands, advanced raising his red cross, and cried: 'In the
name of Jesus, the King of Florence, and of the Blessed Mary our Queen,
we bid you strip off these sinful ornaments, these vanities and
anathemata. And if you refuse, may you fall under the malediction of
God!'
The dog suddenly awakened began to bark, the monkey chattered, the
parrot, flapping its wings, screamed out a verse it had learned from its
mistress:--
'Amor che a nullo amato amar perdona!'
Lena was about to bid her attendants rid her of the crowd when her eyes
fell on Dolfo, and she beckoned to him.
The boy came, his eyes on the ground.
'Away with these ornaments!' shouted the children. 'Away with the
vanities and the anathemata.'
'Ah, you handsome boy!' said the courtesan softly, disregarding the
cries of the crowd. 'Mark you, my little Adonis, I would willingly give
you all my poor toys, but the matter is they are not mine own!'
Dolfo raised his eyes; and Lena, with a scarcely perceptible smile,
nodded as if confirming his secret thoughts, then added caressingly, in
her soft Venetian accent: 'In the Vicolo de' Bottai, near the Santa
Trinità, ask for Lena, the lady from Venice. I'll be expecting you.'
Dolfo looked round and saw that his followers had become involved with a
party of Savonarola's enemies (called the _Arrabbiati_, the Enraged),
and had forgotten the courtesan. It was his duty to bid them fall upon
her, but suddenly he felt himself vanquished, and flushed and hung his
head.
Lena laughed, showing her white teeth; and behind the sumptuous
Cleopatra and Queen of Sheba there shone out the Venetian 'Mammola,' the
saucy street-girl, mischievous and naughty.
The slaves lifted the litter and she pursued her way unmolested, spaniel
on lap; the parrot settled down on his perch; only the monkey still
grimaced, and tried to snatch the pencil with which the courtesan was
beginning verses to the bishop:--
'My love is purer than a seraph's sigh....'
Dolfo, meantime, preceding his company, but without his former
braggadocio, mounted the stair of the Palazzo dei Medici.
VII
In the dark, silent, and spacious halls of the Medicean palace, where
all breathed the solemn grandeur of the past, the children became
awestruck. But when the shutters had been flung open, the trumpets had
blared, and the drums beat, then the youthful inquisitors scattered
themselves through the rooms, shouting and laughing, and singing hymns,
and executing the judgment of God on the sins of learning and art,
gleefully prying into vanities by the guidance of the Holy Spirit.
Giovanni watched them at work, and noted some who, with frowning
foreheads, hands decently folded, and the gravity of judges, paced among
the statues of the philosophers and heroes of pagan antiquity.
'Pythagoras, Anaximenes, Heraclitus, Plato, Marcus Aurelius, Epictetus,'
read one of the boys from the Latin inscriptions on the marble bases.
'Epictetus?' said Federici, with the tone of a profound connoisseur,
'that is the particular heretic who permitted all pleasures and denied
the existence of God. He merits burning; 'tis pity he is marble.'
'Never mind,' cried the cross-eyed Pippo, 'we'll have him in to the
feast.'
'Nay,' interposed Giovanni; 'you are confounding Epictetus with
Epicurus.'
He was too late; down came Pippo's hammer so clean on the philosopher's
nose that the boys yelled in admiration.
'Epictetus or Epicurus, it's all one! If it isn't the broth, it's the
sippets of bread! They shall all go to the house of the devil,' they
cried, quoting Fra Girolamo.
However, contention arose before a picture of Botticelli's. Dolfo
declared it was the naked Bacchus pierced by the shafts of love, but
Federici, whose eye for 'anathemata' rivalled Dolfo's, examined the
picture attentively and pronounced it a portrait of Stephen the
proto-martyr.
The children stood round in perplexity, for the attire and the
expression of the figure in nowise suggested a saint.
'Don't you believe him!' cried Dolfo; ''tis Bacchus, the abominable
Bacchus!'
'You blasphemer!' shouted Federici, raising his crucifix for weapon, and
the two boys fell upon each other with such goodwill that their
followers could hardly separate them. The picture was left for future
consideration.
Standing in wondering groups, the children rummaged amongst the
properties of old carnivals--amongst the horrid masks of satyrs, grapes
for bacchantes, bows, amongst quivers, and wings of Eros, the wands of
Hermes, the tridents of Poseidon. Finally, drawing them forth amid
shouts of laughter, they lighted on the wooden, gilded, cobwebbed
thunderbolt of Jupiter Tonans, and the moth-eaten body of the Olympian
eagle, with moulted tail, and wires and nails protruding from his
perforated crop. A rat jumped out from the dusty golden wig once worn by
Aphrodite, girls screamed, jumped on the couches and gathered up their
petticoats. The shadows of terrified bats beating against the ceiling
seemed the wings of unclean spirits, and a chill of horror and repulsion
settled on the children as they touched this heathen lumber, this
sepulchral dust of deities.
Dolfo running up announced that there was yet another room, its door
guarded by a little, bald, furious, red-nosed, detestable man, who was
hurling blasphemy and curses, and would permit no one to pass. The troop
filed off to reconnoitre; and Giovanni, following them, found in the
janitor his friend the bibliophile, Messer Giorgio Merula.
Dolfo gave the signal for attack; Messer Giorgio stood before the door
preparing to defend it with his body. The children fell upon him, rolled
him over, beat him with their crosses, searched his pockets till they
had found the key, and opened the door. It was a small room with a
library of precious books.
'Here, here!' suggested Merula, cunningly, 'the books you seek are in
this corner. You needn't waste your time over the top shelves. There's
nothing there.'
But the inquisitors heeded him not. All that came to hand they piled in
a vast heap, especially the books in rich bindings. Then they opened the
windows and flung the fat folios straight into the street, where carts
were being loaded with 'vanities.' Tibullus, Horace, Ovid, Apuleius,
Aristophanes, rare copies, unique editions flew through the air before
Merula's very eyes. He rescued one small volume and hid it in his bosom.
It was the history of Marcellinus, containing the life of Julian the
Apostate. Seeing on the floor a delicately-illuminated manuscript of the
tragedies of Sophocles, he snatched it up and made piteous
supplication:--
'Children, dear children! spare Sophocles. He is the most innocent of
poets. Let him alone! Let him alone!'
And he pressed the precious leaves convulsively to his breast, but
finding them tear beneath his too loving hands he burst into sobs and
groans, dropped his treasure, and cried in impotent fury:--
'Know, ye sons of dogs, that one line of this inestimable Sophocles is
worth all the prophecies put together of your madman, Fra Girolamo.'
'Old man, if you don't want to be taken by the heels and thrown after
your pagan poets, you'll hold your tongue!' cried the children, dragging
him from the library.
Then leaving the palace, they passed by Santa Maria del Fiore, and
marched to the Piazza della Signoria.
VIII
In front of the dark and slender tower of the Palazzo Vecchio the pyre
stood ready. It was thirty cubits in height, one hundred and twenty in
circumference; an octagonal pyramid with at least fifteen steps. On the
lowest were the comic masks, dresses, wigs, and other carnival
properties; on the next three, profane books from Anacreon and Ovid to
the _Decameron_, and the _Morgante Maggiore_ of Messer Luigi Pulci.
Above the books were the instruments of female beauty--washes, essences,
mirrors, puffs, curling-tongs, hair-pins, nail-nippers. Still higher
were lutes and mandolines, cards, chessmen, balls, dice--all the games
by means of which men serve the devil. Then came drawings, voluptuous
pictures, portraits of light women; lastly, on the summit of the
pyramid, the gods, heroes and sages of pagan antiquity, made of wood and
of coloured wax. Above the pile, towering higher than anything else, the
figure of Satan was enthroned, the lord of all 'vanities and things
accursed,' a monstrous puppet, filled with gunpowder and sulphur, with
goat's legs and a hairy skin, like Pan, the ancient god of the woods.
It was evening: the air was cold, but serene and clear, and one by one
the stars were beginning their nightly shining. The crowd in the piazza
surged and swayed, and pious murmurings filled the air. Hymns went up
from Savonarola's followers--_Laudi spirituali_--which retaining the
rhymes, the metre, and the air of carnival songs, had been radically
changed in words and sense. Giovanni listened, and the incongruity
between the lively music and the gloomy words resounded in his ears like
some barbarous funeral chant.
'Hope with Faith and Love agrees,
Take three ounces each of these;
Two of tears, and mix them well
On the fire of Fear.
Let them boil for minutes three,
Spice them with Humility,
Adding Grief to make the spell
Of this madness clear;
Lo! my soul, I offer thee
A most sov'ran remedy,
Worthy cure for every ill,
Called by man a madness still.'
A man on crutches, paralysed but not old, his face quivering like the
wing of a wounded bird, approached Fra Domenico Buonvicino and handed
him a parcel.
'What is it,' asked the friar; 'more drawings?'
'A matter of anatomy. Yesterday I forgot to hand it over, but to-night a
voice reproved me: "Sandro," it said, "you have still some 'vanities and
anathemata' in the loft above your shop." So I got up and hunted for
these drawings of nude bodies.'
The monk took the parcel with a good-natured smile.
'We shall light a famous fire, Ser Filippepi!' he said.
The paralytic looked at the pyramid and heaved a profound sigh.
'Lord! Lord! have mercy on us miserable sinners! And to think that but
for Fra Girolamo we should be still in our sins! And even now, who knows
if we shall save our souls?'
He crossed himself and murmured prayers, fingering his rosary.
'Who is that?' Giovanni asked of Fra Domenico.
'Sandro Botticelli,' was the answer, 'son of Ser Mariano Filippepi, the
tanner.'
IX
When at last the curtain of night had fallen upon Florence, a whisper
ran through the crowd.
'They come! They come!'
Slowly, silently, without torches, without hymns, the procession
advanced. Before the white-robed troop of the child inquisitors was
borne the waxen image of the child Jesus, pointing with one hand to his
crown of thorns, with the other blessing the people. After the children
came monks, the clergy of the whole town, the _gonfalonieri_, the
magnificent gentlemen of the Council of Eighty; the cathedral canons,
the doctors of theology, the magistrates, the cavaliers, the guards of
the Bargello, the heralds and trumpeters. Upon reaching the piazza the
procession stood still, and a deathly silence came over the multitude,
such as precedes an execution. Then Savonarola mounted the _Ringhiera_,
a stone platform before the Palazzo Vecchio, lifted the crucifix, and
commanded in sonorous tones:--
'In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost, kindle the
flame!'
Four monks approached the pyre with torches, and immediately fire broke
out at the four opposing corners. The flames crackled, and a smoke at
first grey, then blackening, rose in wreaths to heaven. Trumpets
sounded, the monks chanted a canticle in honour of the Lord, and the
children sang in chorus:--
'Lumen ad revelationem gentium et gloriam plebis Israel.'
The great bell of the Palazzo Vecchio rolled a solemn and majestic sound
upon the air, and was answered from all the belfries of the town. The
fire rose ever fiercer and more brilliant; and the delicate parchment
leaves of the old books curled up and perished. From the lowest step a
bunch of false hair rose flaming and floated away, amid the jeers and
laughter of the crowd. Among the people were some who prayed, some who
wept; others screamed and danced, and waved their arms and kerchiefs and
caps; others prophesied.
'Sing, brothers, sing unto the Lord a new song!' shouted a limping
shoemaker with wild eyes: 'All the world is crumbling! burning, burning
to a horrible destruction, even as these vanities in the purifying
fire--all--all--all!--Church, laws, governments, powers, arts,
learning--one stone shall not be left upon another!--there shall be a
new heaven and a new earth; and God shall wipe away all tears from our
eyes, and there shall be no more death, neither sorrow nor weeping nor
sickness! O Lord Jesus, come! come!'
A young woman, with a thin and suffering face, pregnant, no doubt the
wife of some poverty-stricken artisan, fell on her knees, spreading her
hands towards the flame, as if in very truth she saw in it a vision of
the Christ Himself; then starting up and calling like one possessed, she
cried:--
'My Jesus! my Jesus! Come, Lord Jesus! Come!'
X
Among the objects burning at the stake Giovanni could not take his eyes
off a picture lighted up but not yet touched by the flame. It was by
Leonardo: a shining white Leda, lying on the waves of a mountain-girdled
lake, among the low-toned reflections of twilight. A great swan spread
his wings over her, bending his long neck, and filling the sky and the
earth with his triumphant hymn of love, while Leda watched her twin
sons. Giovanni stared at the advance of the flame, his heart beating
high in nervous horror.
Just then the monks elevated a sombre cross in the centre of the square,
and in honour of the Trinity made themselves into three circles, joining
their hands; then testifying to the spiritual joy of the faithful, they
danced, first slowly, then faster and faster, till at last they were as
a mighty whirlwind, and they sang the while:--
'_Ognun gridi com' io grido! Sempre pazzo, pazzo, pazzo!_'
'Each and all with me cry out,
Ever madly, madly shout!
All that wise men follow after
Jesu's fools delight in spurning,
Riches, honour, feasting, laughter,
Pomp and pleasure, golden earning--
Unto those things fondly turning
That to wisdom hateful be:
Grief, and pain, and penury.
Christians still may boast of madness--
Never was there greater gladness,
More delightsome solace never
Than for love of Jesu ever
Thus to rage in holy madness.'[3]
[3] Hieronymo Benivieni.
The heads of the spectators reeled, and their hands and feet were set in
motion; suddenly children, men, feeble women joined in the frantic
dance. One old and unwieldy monk, like an aged faun, tripped, fell, and
was hurt so that the blood flowed; he was flung aside, barely escaping
trampling, and the dance rolled on. The fire's crimson and flickering
glow lighted convulsed faces: a vast shadow was thrown by the crucifix,
the moveless centre of the whirling circles.
'If of wit my mind doth show,
Jesu, in thy courtesie,
Rid it thence and let me know
Ever only phrenesie!
For of all philosophie,
Wisdom, prudence, and the rest,
Loathing such hath me possessed
That I would only ask for madness.
Jesu mine, it doth appear
Wisdom all and man's contriving
In God's sight is folly mere;
All things else but vainest striving,
Saving Thee, Thou fount reviving,
Whence flow out such waters rare,
That who slakes his thirst once there
For love of Thee is seized with madness.'
At last the creeping flame had reached the Leda, with its scarlet tongue
had licked the pure body, flushed as if living, and grown momentarily
yet more mystic and exquisite. Giovanni gazed, shuddering and turning
pale, and for him Leda smiled her last smile; then dissolving in the
fire, like a cloud in the sunrise, she was lost for ever.
And now the flame had attained the huge devil on the apex of the
pyramid: its paunch, filled with powder, burst with a tremendous crash.
A pillar of fire rose to the sky. The monster tottered on his blazing
throne, bowed, fell, and was scattered in a powder of dying embers.
Drums and trumpets sounded. All the bells pealed, the crowd raised a
roar of triumph, as though Satan himself had perished in the flames of
the holy pile, together with all the falsehood, pain and sins of the
whole earth. Giovanni clapped his hands to his temples and would have
fled. But a hand was laid upon his shoulder; he turned and looked:
beside him stood Leonardo, with his quiet untroubled face. The Master
took him by the hand and drew him forth from the crowd.
XI
They moved from the square, pervaded by clouds of stifling smoke, and,
lit up by the glow of the dying bonfire, by an obscure lane they took
their way to the banks of the Arno. Here all breathed quietness and
calm: the stream glided by, gently murmuring: the stars scintillated,
coldly brilliant, and the moon bathed the hills in a flood of silver
glory.
'Giovanni,' said Leonardo, 'why did you forsake me?'
The disciple raised his eyes and tried to speak; but his voice died in
his throat, his lip trembled, and he burst into tears.
'Master--forgive me!'
'You have done me no wrong.'
'I knew not what I did,' murmured Boltraffio. 'How, O God! how could I
have left you?'
He would have told his sufferings, his madness, the anguish of his
terrible doubts. But as when at Milan he had stood before the Colossus
of Francesco Sforza, he felt that Leonardo would have no comprehension;
and in hopeless entreaty he looked into his eyes--eyes clear, calm, and
alien as the stars.
As if divining the conflict in his soul, the Master did not question
him; he smiled with infinite kindness, and laying his hand on the young
head he said:--
'God help you, my poor boy: you know I have ever loved you as my
favourite son! Will you come back to me? I will receive you with joy.'
Then, scarce audibly, as if speaking to himself, he added:--
'The deeper the sensitiveness, the greater the grief. A martyr among the
martyrs!'
From afar came the clash of the bells, the scream of the chant, the cry
of the frenzied mob. But Master and pupil were happy.