The Prophet in his Cell.
Tito’s visit to San Marco had been announced beforehand, and he was at
once conducted by Fra Niccolò, Savonarola’s secretary, up the spiral
staircase into the long corridors lined with cells—corridors where Fra
Angelico’s frescoes, delicate as the rainbow on the melting cloud,
startled the unaccustomed eye here and there, as if they had been
sudden reflections cast from an ethereal world, where the Madonna sat
crowned in her radiant glory, and the Divine infant looked forth with
perpetual promise.
It was an hour of relaxation in the monastery, and most of the cells
were empty. The light through the narrow windows looked in on nothing
but bare walls, and the hard pallet and the crucifix. And even behind
that door at the end of a long corridor, in the inner cell opening from
an antechamber where the Prior usually sat at his desk or received
private visitors, the high jet of light fell on only one more object
that looked quite as common a monastic sight as the bare walls and hard
pallet. It was but the back of a figure in the long white Dominican
tunic and scapulary, kneeling with bowed head before a crucifix. It
might have been any ordinary Fra Girolamo, who had nothing worse to
confess than thinking of wrong things when he was singing _in coro_, or
feeling a spiteful joy when Fra Benedetto dropped the ink over his own
miniatures in the breviary he was illuminating—who had no higher
thought than that of climbing safely into Paradise up the narrow ladder
of prayer, fasting, and obedience. But under this particular white
tunic there was a heart beating with a consciousness inconceivable to
the average monk, and perhaps hard to be conceived by any man who has
not arrived at self-knowledge through a tumultuous inner life: a
consciousness in which irrevocable errors and lapses from veracity were
so entwined with noble purposes and sincere beliefs, in which
self-justifying expediency was so inwoven with the tissue of a great
work which the whole being seemed as unable to abandon as the body was
unable to abandon glowing and trembling before the objects of hope and
fear, that it was perhaps impossible, whatever course might be adopted,
for the conscience to find perfect repose.
Savonarola was not only in the attitude of prayer, there were Latin
words of prayer on his lips; and yet he was not praying. He had entered
his cell, had fallen on his knees, and burst into words of
supplication, seeking in this way for an influx of calmness which would
be a warrant to him that the resolutions urged on him by crowding
thoughts and passions were not wresting him away from the Divine
support; but the previsions and impulses which had been at work within
him for the last hour were too imperious; and while he pressed his
hands against his face, and while his lips were uttering audibly, “_Cor
mundum crea in me_” his mind was still filled with the images of the
snare his enemies had prepared for him, was still busy with the
arguments by which he could justify himself against their taunts and
accusations.
And it was not only against his opponents that Savonarola had to defend
himself. This morning he had had new proof that his friends and
followers were as much inclined to urge on the Trial by Fire as his
enemies: desiring and tacitly expecting that he himself would at last
accept the challenge and evoke the long-expected miracle which was to
dissipate doubt and triumph over malignity. Had he not said that God
would declare himself at the fitting time? And to the understanding of
plain Florentines, eager to get party questions settled, it seemed that
no time could be more fitting than this. Certainly, if Fra Domenico
walked through the fire unhurt, _that_ would be a miracle, and the
faith and ardour of that good brother were felt to be a cheering
augury; but Savonarola was acutely conscious that the secret longing of
his followers to see him accept the challenge had not been dissipated
by any reasons he had given for his refusal.
Yet it was impossible to him to satisfy them; and with bitter distress
he saw now that it was impossible for him any longer to resist the
prosecution of the trial in Fra Domenico’s case. Not that Savonarola
had uttered and written a falsity when he declared his belief in a
future supernatural attestation of his work; but his mind was so
constituted that while it was easy for him to believe in a miracle
which, being distant and undefined, was screened behind the strong
reasons he saw for its occurrence, and yet easier for him to have a
belief in inward miracles such as his own prophetic inspiration and
divinely-wrought intuitions; it was at the same time insurmountably
difficult to him to believe in the probability of a miracle which, like
this of being carried unhurt through the fire, pressed in all its
details on his imagination and involved a demand not only for belief
but for exceptional action.
Savonarola’s nature was one of those in which opposing tendencies
co-exist in almost equal strength: the passionate sensibility which,
impatient of definite thought, floods every idea with emotion and tends
towards contemplative ecstasy, alternated in him with a keen perception
of outward facts and a vigorous practical judgment of men and things.
And in this case of the Trial by Fire, the latter characteristics were
stimulated into unusual activity by an acute physical sensitiveness
which gives overpowering force to the conception of pain and
destruction as a necessary sequence of facts which have already been
causes of pain in our experience. The promptitude with which men will
consent to touch red-hot iron with a wet finger is not to be measured
by their theoretic acceptance of the impossibility that the iron will
burn them: practical belief depends on what is most strongly
represented in the mind at a given moment. And with the Frate’s
constitution, when the Trial by Fire was urged on his imagination as an
immediate demand, it was impossible for him to believe that he or any
other man could walk through the flames unhurt—impossible for him to
believe that even if he resolved to offer himself, he would not shrink
at the last moment.
But the Florentines were not likely to make these fine distinctions. To
the common run of mankind it has always seemed a proof of mental vigour
to find moral questions easy, and judge conduct according to concise
alternatives. And nothing was likely to seem plainer than that a man
who at one time declared that God would not leave him without the
guarantee of a miracle, and yet drew back when it was proposed to test
his declaration, had said what he did not believe. Were not Fra
Domenico and Fra Mariano, and scores of Piagnoni besides, ready to
enter the fire? What was the cause of their superior courage, if it was
not their superior faith? Savonarola could not have explained his
conduct satisfactorily to his friends, even if he had been able to
explain it thoroughly to himself. And he was not. Our naked feelings
make haste to clothe themselves in propositions which lie at hand among
our store of opinions, and to give a true account of what passes within
us something else is necessary besides sincerity, even when sincerity
is unmixed. In these very moments, when Savonarola was kneeling in
audible prayer, he had ceased to hear the words on his lips. They were
drowned by argumentative voices within him that shaped their reasons
more and more for an outward audience.
“To appeal to heaven for a miracle by a rash acceptance of a challenge,
which is a mere snare prepared for me by ignoble foes, would be a
tempting of God, and the appeal would not be responded to. Let the
Pope’s legate come, let the ambassadors of all the great Powers come
and promise that the calling of a General Council and the reform of the
Church shall hang on the miracle, and I will enter the flames, trusting
that God will not withhold His seal from that great work. Until then I
reserve myself for higher duties which are directly laid upon me: it is
not permitted to me to leap from the chariot for the sake of wrestling
with every loud vaunter. But Fra Domenico’s invincible zeal to enter
into the trial may be the sign of a Divine vocation, may be a pledge
that the miracle—”
But no! when Savonarola brought his mind close to the threatened scene
in the Piazza, and imagined a human body entering the fire, his belief
recoiled again. It was not an event that his imagination could simply
see: he felt it with shuddering vibrations to the extremities of his
sensitive fingers. The miracle could not be. Nay, the trial itself was
not to happen: he was warranted in doing all in his power to hinder it.
The fuel might be got ready in the Piazza, the people might be
assembled, the preparatory formalities might be gone through: all this
was perhaps inevitable now, and he could no longer resist it without
bringing dishonour on—himself? Yes, and therefore on the cause of God.
But it was not really intended that the Franciscan should enter the
fire, and while _he_ hung back there would be the means of preventing
Fra Domenico’s entrance. At the very worst, if Fra Domenico were
compelled to enter, he should carry the consecrated Host with him, and
with that Mystery in his hand, there might be a warrant for expecting
that the ordinary effects of fire would be stayed; or, more probably,
this demand would be resisted, and might thus be a final obstacle to
the trial.
But these intentions could not be avowed: he must appear frankly to
await the trial, and to trust in its issue. That dissidence between
inward reality and outward seeming was not the Christian simplicity
after which he had striven through years of his youth and prime, and
which he had preached as a chief fruit of the Divine life. In the
stress and heat of the day, with cheeks burning, with shouts ringing in
the ears, who is so blest as to remember the yearnings he had in the
cool and silent morning and know that he has not belied them?
“O God, it is for the sake of the people—because they are blind—because
their faith depends on me. If I put on sackcloth and cast myself among
the ashes, who will take up the standard and head the battle? Have I
not been led by a way which I knew not to the work that lies before
me?”
The conflict was one that could not end, and in the effort at prayerful
pleading the uneasy mind laved its smart continually in thoughts of the
greatness of that task which there was no man else to fulfil if he
forsook it. It was not a thing of everyday that a man should be
inspired with the vision and the daring that made a sacred rebel.
Even the words of prayer had died away. He continued to kneel, but his
mind was filled with the images of results to be felt through all
Europe; and the sense of immediate difficulties was being lost in the
glow of that vision, when the knocking at the door announced the
expected visit.
Savonarola drew on his mantle before he left his cell, as was his
custom when he received visitors; and with that immediate response to
any appeal from without which belongs to a power-loving nature
accustomed to make its power felt by speech, he met Tito with a glance
as self-possessed and strong as if he had risen from resolution instead
of conflict.
Tito did not kneel, but simply made a greeting of profound deference,
which Savonarola received quietly without any sacerdotal words, and
then desiring him to be seated, said at once—
“Your business is something of weight, my son, that could not be
conveyed through others?”
“Assuredly, father, else I should not have presumed to ask it. I will
not trespass on your time by any proem. I gathered from a remark of
Messer Domenico Mazzinghi that you might be glad to make use of the
next special courier who is sent to France with despatches from the
Ten. I must entreat you to pardon me if I have been too officious; but
inasmuch as Messer Domenico is at this moment away at his villa, I
wished to apprise you that a courier carrying important letters is
about to depart for Lyons at daybreak to-morrow.”
The muscles of Fra Girolamo’s face were eminently under command, as
must be the case with all men whose personality is powerful, and in
deliberate speech he was habitually cautious, confiding his intentions
to none without necessity. But under any strong mental stimulus, his
eyes were liable to a dilatation and added brilliancy that no strength
of will could control. He looked steadily at Tito, and did not answer
immediately, as if he had to consider whether the information he had
just heard met any purpose of his.
Tito, whose glance never seemed observant, but rarely let anything
escape it, had expected precisely that dilatation and flash of
Savonarola’s eyes which he had noted on other occasions. He saw it, and
then immediately busied himself in adjusting his gold fibula, which had
got wrong; seeming to imply that he awaited an answer patiently.
The fact was that Savonarola had expected to receive this intimation
from Domenico Mazzinghi, one of the Ten, an ardent disciple of his whom
he had already employed to write a private letter to the Florentine
ambassador in France, to prepare the way for a letter to the French
king himself in Savonarola’s handwriting, which now lay ready in the
desk at his side. It was a letter calling on the king to assist in
summoning a General Council, that might reform the abuses of the
Church, and begin by deposing Pope Alexander, who was not rightfully
Pope, being a vicious unbeliever, elected by corruption and governing
by simony.
This fact was not what Tito knew, but what his constructive talent,
guided by subtle indications, had led him to guess and hope.
“It is true, my son,” said Savonarola, quietly,—“it is true I have
letters which I would gladly send by safe conveyance under cover to our
ambassador. Our community of San Marco, as you know, has affairs in
France, being, amongst other things, responsible for a debt to that
singularly wise and experienced Frenchman, Signor Philippe de Comines,
on the library of the Medici, which we purchased; but I apprehend that
Domenico Mazzinghi himself may return to the city before evening, and I
should gain more time for preparation of the letters if I waited to
deposit them in his hands.”
“Assuredly, reverend father, that might be better on all grounds,
except one, namely, that if anything occurred to hinder Messer
Domenico’s return, the despatch of the letters would require either
that I should come to San Marco again at a late hour, or that you
should send them to me by your secretary; and I am aware that you wish
to guard against the false inferences which might be drawn from a too
frequent communication between yourself and any officer of the
government.” In throwing out this difficulty Tito felt that the more
unwillingness the Frate showed to trust him, the more certain he would
be of his conjecture.
Savonarola was silent; but while he kept his mouth firm, a slight glow
rose in his face with the suppressed excitement that was growing within
him. It would be a critical moment—that in which he delivered the
letter out of his own hands.
“It is most probable that Messer Domenico will return in time,” said
Tito, affecting to consider the Frate’s determination settled, and
rising from his chair as he spoke. “With your permission, I will take
my leave, father, not to trespass on your time when my errand is done;
but as I may not be favoured with another interview, I venture to
confide to you—what is not yet known to others, except to the
magnificent Ten—that I contemplate resigning my secretaryship, and
leaving Florence shortly. Am I presuming too much on your interest in
stating what relates chiefly to myself?”
“Speak on, my son,” said the Frate; “I desire to know your prospects.”
“I find, then, that I have mistaken my real vocation in forsaking the
career of pure letters, for which I was brought up. The politics of
Florence, father, are worthy to occupy the greatest mind—to occupy
yours—when a man is in a position to execute his own ideas; but when,
like me, he can only hope to be the mere instrument of changing
schemes, he requires to be animated by the minor attachments of a born
Florentine: also, my wife’s unhappy alienation from a Florentine
residence since the painful events of August naturally influences me. I
wish to join her.”
Savonarola inclined his head approvingly.
“I intend, then, soon to leave Florence, to visit the chief courts of
Europe, and to widen my acquaintance with the men of letters in the
various universities. I shall go first to the court of Hungary, where
scholars are eminently welcome; and I shall probably start in a week or
ten days. I have not concealed from you, father, that I am no religious
enthusiast; I have not my wife’s ardour; but religious enthusiasm, as I
conceive, is not necessary in order to appreciate the grandeur and
justice of your views concerning the government of nations and the
Church. And if you condescend to intrust me with any commission that
will further the relations you wish to establish, I shall feel
honoured. May I now take my leave?”
“Stay, my son. When you depart from Florence I will send a letter to
your wife, of whose spiritual welfare I would fain be assured, for she
left me in anger. As for the letters to France, such as I have ready—”
Savonarola rose and turned to his desk as he spoke. He took from it a
letter on which Tito could see, but not read, an address in the Frate’s
own minute and exquisite handwriting, still to be seen covering the
margins of his Bibles. He took a large sheet of paper, enclosed the
letter, and sealed it.
“Pardon me, father,” said Tito, before Savonarola had time to speak,
“unless it were your decided wish, I would rather not incur the
responsibility of carrying away the letter. Messer Domenico Mazzinghi
will doubtless return, or, if not, Fra Niccolò can convey it to me at
the second hour of the evening, when I shall place the other despatches
in the courier’s hands.”
“At present, my son,” said the Frate, waiving that point, “I wish you
to address this packet to our ambassador in your own handwriting, which
is preferable to my secretary’s.”
Tito sat down to write the address while the Frate stood by him with
folded arms, the glow mounting in his cheek, and his lip at last
quivering. Tito rose and was about to move away, when Savonarola said
abruptly—“Take it, my son. There is no use in waiting. It does not
please me that Fra Niccolò should have needless errands to the
Palazzo.”
As Tito took the letter, Savonarola stood in suppressed excitement that
forbade further speech. There seems to be a subtle emanation from
passionate natures like his, making their mental states tell
immediately on others; when they are absent-minded and inwardly excited
there is silence in the air.
Tito made a deep reverence and went out with the letter under his
mantle.
The letter was duly delivered to the courier and carried out of
Florence. But before that happened another messenger, privately
employed by Tito, had conveyed information in cipher, which was carried
by a series of relays to armed agents of Ludovico Sforza, Duke of
Milan, on the watch for the very purpose of intercepting despatches on
the borders of the Milanese territory.