The Trial by Fire.
Little more than a week after, on the seventh of April, the great
Piazza della Signoria presented a stranger spectacle even than the
famous Bonfire of Vanities. And a greater multitude had assembled to
see it than had ever before tried to find place for themselves in the
wide Piazza, even on the day of San Giovanni.
It was near mid-day, and since the early morning there had been a
gradual swarming of the people at every coign of vantage or
disadvantage offered by the façades and roofs of the houses, and such
spaces of the pavement as were free to the public. Men were seated on
iron rods that made a sharp angle with the rising wall, were clutching
slim pillars with arms and legs, were astride on the necks of the rough
statuary that here and there surmounted the entrances of the grander
houses, were finding a palm’s-breadth of seat on a bit of architrave,
and a footing on the rough projections of the rustic stonework, while
they clutched the strong iron rings or staples driven into the walls
beside them.
For they were come to see a Miracle: cramped limbs and abraded flesh
seemed slight inconveniences with that prospect close at hand. It is
the ordinary lot of mankind to hear of miracles, and more or less to
believe in them; but now the Florentines were going to see one. At the
very least they would see half a miracle; for if the monk did not come
whole out of the fire, they would see him enter it, and infer that he
was burned in the middle.
There could be no reasonable doubt, it seemed, that the fire would be
kindled, and that the monks would enter it. For there, before their
eyes, was the long platform, eight feet broad, and twenty yards long,
with a grove of fuel heaped up terribly, great branches of dry oak as a
foundation, crackling thorns above, and well-anointed tow and rags,
known to make fine flames in Florentine illuminations. The platform
began at the corner of the marble terrace in front of the Old Palace,
close to Marzocco, the stone lion, whose aged visage looked frowningly
along the grove of fuel that stretched obliquely across the Piazza.
Besides that, there were three large bodies of armed men: five hundred
hired soldiers of the Signoria stationed before the palace; five
hundred Compagnacci under Dolfo Spini, far-off on the opposite side of
the Piazza; and three hundred armed citizens of another sort, under
Marco Salviati, Savonarola’s friend, in front of Orgagna’s Loggia,
where the Franciscans and Dominicans were to be placed with their
champions.
Here had been much expense of money and labour, and high dignities were
concerned. There could be no reasonable doubt that something great was
about to happen; and it would certainly be a great thing if the two
monks were simply burned, for in that case too God would have spoken,
and said very plainly that Fra Girolamo was not His prophet.
And there was not much longer to wait, for it was now near mid-day.
Half the monks were already at their post, and that half of the Loggia
that lies towards the Palace was already filled with grey mantles; but
the other half, divided off by boards, was still empty of everything
except a small altar. The Franciscans had entered and taken their
places in silence. But now, at the other side of the Piazza was heard
loud chanting from two hundred voices, and there was general
satisfaction, if not in the chanting, at least in the evidence that the
Dominicans were come. That loud chanting repetition of the prayer, “Let
God arise, and let His enemies be scattered,” was unpleasantly
suggestive to some impartial ears of a desire to vaunt confidence and
excite dismay; and so was the flame-coloured velvet cope in which Fra
Domenico was arrayed as he headed the procession, cross in hand, his
simple mind really exalted with faith, and with the genuine intention
to enter the flames for the glory of God and Fra Girolamo. Behind him
came Savonarola in the white vestment of a priest, carrying in his
hands a vessel containing the consecrated Host. He, too, was chanting
loudly; he, too, looked firm and confident, and as all eyes were turned
eagerly on him, either in anxiety, curiosity, or malignity, from the
moment when he entered the Piazza till he mounted the steps of the
Loggia and deposited the Sacrament on the altar, there was an
intensifying flash and energy in his countenance responding to that
scrutiny.
We are so made, almost all of us, that the false seeming which we have
thought of with painful shrinking when beforehand in our solitude it
has urged itself on us as a necessity, will possess our muscles and
move our lips as if nothing but that were easy when once we have come
under the stimulus of expectant eyes and ears. And the strength of that
stimulus to Savonarola can hardly be measured by the experience of
ordinary lives. Perhaps no man has ever had a mighty influence over his
fellows without having the innate need to dominate, and this need
usually becomes the more imperious in proportion as the complications
of life make Self inseparable from a purpose which is not selfish. In
this way it came to pass that on the day of the Trial by Fire, the
doubleness which is the pressing temptation in every public career,
whether of priest, orator, or statesman, was more strongly defined in
Savonarola’s consciousness as the acting of a part, than at any other
period in his life. He was struggling not against impending martyrdom,
but against impending ruin.
Therefore he looked and acted as if he were thoroughly confident, when
all the while foreboding was pressing with leaden weight on his heart,
not only because of the probable issues of this trial, but because of
another event already past—an event which was spreading a sunny
satisfaction through the mind of a man who was looking down at the
passion-worn prophet from a window of the Old Palace. It was a common
turning-point towards which those widely-sundered lives had been
converging, that two evenings ago the news had come that the Florentine
courier of the Ten had been arrested and robbed of all his despatches,
so that Savonarola’s letter was already in the hands of the Duke of
Milan, and would soon be in the hands of the Pope, not only heightening
rage, but giving a new justification to extreme measures. There was no
malignity in Tito Melema’s satisfaction: it was the mild
self-gratulation of a man who has won a game that has employed
hypothetic skill, not a game that has stirred the muscles and heated
the blood. Of course that bundle of desires and contrivances called
human nature, when moulded into the form of a plain-featured Frate
Predicatore, more or less of an impostor, could not be a pathetic
object to a brilliant-minded scholar who understood everything. Yet
this tonsured Girolamo with the high nose and large under lip was an
immensely clever Frate, mixing with his absurd superstitions or
fabrications very remarkable notions about government: no babbler, but
a man who could keep his secrets. Tito had no more spite against him
than against Saint Dominic. On the contrary, Fra Girolamo’s existence
had been highly convenient to Tito Melema, furnishing him with that
round of the ladder from which he was about to leap on to a new and
smooth footing very much to his heart’s content. And everything now was
in forward preparation for that leap: let one more sun rise and set,
and Tito hoped to quit Florence. He had been so industrious that he
felt at full leisure to amuse himself with to-day’s comedy, which the
thick-headed Dolfo Spini could never have brought about but for him.
Not yet did the loud chanting cease, but rather swelled to a deafening
roar, being taken up in all parts of the Piazza by the Piagnoni, who
carried their little red crosses as a badge, and, most of them, chanted
the prayer for the confusion of God’s enemies with the expectation of
an answer to be given through the medium of a more signal personage
than Fra Domenico. This good Frate in his flame-coloured cope was now
kneeling before the little altar on which the Sacrament was deposited,
awaiting his summons.
On the Franciscan side of the Loggia there was no chanting and no
flame-colour: only silence and greyness. But there was this
counterbalancing difference, that the Franciscans had two champions: a
certain Fra Giuliano was to pair with Fra Domenico, while the original
champion, Fra Francesco, confined his challenge to Savonarola.
“Surely,” thought the men perched uneasily on the rods and pillars,
“all must be ready now. This chanting might stop, and we should see
better when the Frati are moving towards the platform.”
But the Frati were not to be seen moving yet. Pale Franciscan faces
were looking uneasily over the boarding at that flame-coloured cope. It
had an evil look and might be enchanted, so that a false miracle would
be wrought by magic. Your monk may come whole out of the fire, and yet
it may be the work of the devil.
And now there was passing to and fro between the Loggia and the marble
terrace of the Palazzo, and the roar of chanting became a little
quieter, for every one at a distance was beginning to watch more
eagerly. But it soon appeared that the new movement was not a
beginning, but an obstacle to beginning. The dignified Florentines
appointed to preside over this affair as moderators on each side, went
in and out of the Palace, and there was much debate with the
Franciscans. But at last it was clear that Fra Domenico, conspicuous in
his flame-colour, was being fetched towards the Palace. Probably the
fire had already been kindled—it was difficult to see at a distance—and
the miracle was going to begin.
Not at all. The flame-coloured cope disappeared within the Palace; then
another Dominican was fetched away; and for a long while everything
went on as before—the tiresome chanting, which was not miraculous, and
Fra Girolamo in his white vestment standing just in the same place. But
at last something happened: Fra Domenico was seen coming out of the
Palace again, and returning to his brethren. He had changed all his
clothes with a brother monk, but he was guarded on each flank by a
Franciscan, lest coming into the vicinity of Savonarola he should be
enchanted again.
“Ah, then,” thought the distant spectators, a little less conscious of
cramped limbs and hunger, “Fra Domenico is not going to enter the fire.
It is Fra Girolamo who offers himself after all. We shall see him move
presently, and if he comes out of the flames we shall have a fine view
of him!”
But Fra Girolamo did not move, except with the ordinary action
accompanying speech. The speech was bold and firm, perhaps somewhat
ironically remonstrant, like that of Elijah to the priests of Baal,
demanding the cessation of these trivial delays. But speech is the most
irritating kind of argument for those who are out of hearing, cramped
in the limbs, and empty in the stomach. And what need was there for
speech? If the miracle did not begin, it could be no one’s fault but
Fra Girolamo’s, who might put an end to all difficulties by offering
himself now the fire was ready, as he had been forward enough to do
when there was no fuel in sight.
More movement to and fro, more discussion; and the afternoon seemed to
be slipping away all the faster because the clouds had gathered, and
changed the light on everything, and sent a chill through the
spectators, hungry in mind and body.
_Now_ it was the crucifix which Fra Domenico wanted to carry into the
fire and must not be allowed to profane in that manner. After some
little resistance Savonarola gave way to this objection, and thus had
the advantage of making one more concession; but he immediately placed
in Fra Domenico’s hands the vessel containing the consecrated Host. The
idea that the presence of the sacred Mystery might in the worst
extremity avert the ordinary effects of fire hovered in his mind as a
possibility; but the issue on which he counted was of a more positive
kind. In taking up the Host he said quietly, as if he were only doing
what had been presupposed from the first—
“Since they are not willing that you should enter with the crucifix, my
brother, enter simply with the Sacrament.”
New horror in the Franciscans; new firmness in Savonarola. “It was
impious presumption to carry the Sacrament into the fire: if it were
burned the scandal would be great in the minds of the weak and
ignorant.”
“Not at all: even if it were burned, the Accidents only would be
consumed, the Substance would remain.” Here was a question that might
be argued till set of sun and remain as elastic as ever; and no one
could propose settling it by proceeding to the trial, since it was
essentially a preliminary question. It was only necessary that both
sides should remain firm—that the Franciscans should persist in not
permitting the Host to be carried into the fire, and that Fra Domenico
should persist in refusing to enter without it.
Meanwhile the clouds were getting darker, the air chiller. Even the
chanting was missed now it had given way to inaudible argument; and the
confused sounds of talk from all points of the Piazza, showing that
expectation was everywhere relaxing, contributed to the irritating
presentiment that nothing decisive would be done. Here and there a
dropping shout was heard; then, more frequent shouts in a rising scale
of scorn.
“Light the fire and drive them in!”
“Let us have a smell of roast—we want our dinner!”
“Come Prophet, let us know whether anything is to happen before the
twenty-four hours are over!”
“Yes, yes, what’s your last vision?”
“Oh, he’s got a dozen in his inside; they’re the small change for a
miracle!”
“Ola, Frate, where are you? Never mind wasting the fuel!”
Still the same movement to and fro between the Loggia and the Palace;
still the same debate, slow and unintelligible to the multitude as the
colloquies of insects that touch antennas to no other apparent effect
than that of going and coming. But an interpretation was not long
wanting to unheard debates in which Fra Girolamo was constantly a
speaker: it was he who was hindering the trial; everybody was appealing
to him now, and he was hanging back.
Soon the shouts ceased to be distinguishable, and were lost in an
uproar not simply of voices, but of clashing metal and trampling feet.
The suggestions of the irritated people had stimulated old impulses in
Dolfo Spini and his band of Compagnacci; it seemed an opportunity not
to be lost for putting an end to Florentine difficulties by getting
possession of the arch-hypocrite’s person; and there was a vigorous
rush of the armed men towards the Loggia, thrusting the people aside,
or driving them on to the file of soldiery stationed in front of the
Palace. At this movement, everything was suspended both with monks and
embarrassed magistrates except the palpitating watch to see what would
come of the struggle.
But the Loggia was well guarded by the band under the brave Salviati;
the soldiers of the Signoria assisted in the repulse; and the trampling
and rushing were all backward again towards the Tetto de’ Pisani, when
the blackness of the heavens seemed to intensify in this moment of
utter confusion; and the rain, which had already been felt in scattered
drops, began to fall with rapidly growing violence, wetting the fuel,
and running in streams off the platform, wetting the weary hungry
people to the skin, and driving every man’s disgust and rage inwards to
ferment there in the damp darkness.
Everybody knew now that the Trial by Fire was not to happen. The
Signoria was doubtless glad of the rain, as an obvious reason, better
than any pretext, for declaring that both parties might go home. It was
the issue which Savonarola had expected and desired; yet it would be an
ill description of what he felt to say that he was glad. As that rain
fell, and plashed on the edge of the Loggia, and sent spray over the
altar and all garments and faces, the Frate knew that the demand for
him to enter the fire was at an end. But he knew too, with a certainty
as irresistible as the damp chill that had taken possession of his
frame, that the design of his enemies was fulfilled, and that his
honour was not saved. He knew that he should have to make his way to
San Marco again through the enraged crowd, and that the hearts of many
friends who would once have defended him with their lives would now be
turned against him.
When the rain had ceased he asked for a guard from the Signoria, and it
was given him. Had he said that he was willing to die for the work of
his life? Yes, and he had not spoken falsely. But to die in
dishonour—held up to scorn as a hypocrite and a false prophet? “O God!
_that_ is not martyrdom! It is the blotting out of a life that has been
a protest against wrong. Let me die because of the worth that is in me,
not because of my weakness.”
The rain had ceased, and the light from the breaking clouds fell on
Savonarola as he left the Loggia in the midst of his guard, walking as
he had come, with the Sacrament in his hand. But there seemed no glory
in the light that fell on him now, no smile of heaven: it was only that
light which shines on, patiently and impartially, justifying or
condemning by simply showing all things in the slow history of their
ripening. He heard no blessing, no tones of pity, but only taunts and
threats. He knew this was a foretaste of coming bitterness; yet his
courage mounted under all moral attack, and he showed no sign of
dismay.
“Well parried, Frate!” said Tito, as Savonarola descended the steps of
the Loggia. “But I fear your career at Florence is ended. What say you,
my Niccolò?”
“It is a pity his falsehoods were not all of a wise sort,” said
Macchiavelli, with a melancholy shrug. “With the times so much on his
side as they are about Church affairs, he might have done something
great.”