"LET US ALSO GO, THAT WE MAY DIE WITH HIM."
Father Antonio sat alone in his cell in the San Marco in an attitude of
deep dejection. The open window looked into the garden of the convent,
from which steamed up the fragrance of violet, jasmine, and rose, and
the sunshine lay fair on all that was without. On a table beside him
were many loose and scattered sketches, and an unfinished page of
the Breviary he was executing, rich in quaint tracery of gold and
arabesques, seemed to have recently occupied his attention, for his
palette was wet and many loose brushes lay strewed around. Upon the
table stood a Venetian glass with a narrow neck and a bulb clear
and thin as a soap-bubble, containing vines and blossoms of the
passion-flower, which he had evidently been using as models in his work.
The page he was illuminating was the prophetic Psalm which describes the
ignominy and sufferings of the Redeemer. It was surrounded by a wreathed
border of thorn-branches interwoven with the blossoms and tendrils of
the passion-flower, and the initial letters of the first two words were
formed by a curious combination of the hammer, the nails, the spear, the
crown of thorns, the cross, and other instruments of the Passion; and
clear, in red letter, gleamed out those wonderful, mysterious words,
consecrated by the remembrance of a more than mortal anguish,--"My God,
my God, why hast thou forsaken me?"
The artist-monk had perhaps fled to his palette to assuage the
throbbings of his heart, as a mourning mother flies to the cradle of her
child; but even there his grief appeared to have overtaken him, for the
work lay as if pushed from him in an access of anguish such as comes
from the sudden recurrence of some overwhelming recollection. He was
leaning forward with his face buried in his hands, sobbing convulsively.
The door opened, and a man advancing stealthily behind laid a hand
kindly on his shoulder, saying softly, "So, so, brother!"
Father Antonio looked up, and, dashing his hand hastily across his
eyes, grasped that of the new-comer convulsively, and saying only, "Oh,
Baccio! Baccio!" hid his face again.
The eyes of the other filled with tears, as he answered gently,--
"Nay, but, my brother, you are killing yourself. They tell me that you
have eaten nothing for three days, and slept not for weeks; you will die
of this grief."
"Would that I might! Why could not I die with him as well as Fra
Domenico? Oh, my master! my dear master!"
"It is indeed a most heavy day to us all," said Baccio della Porta,
the amiable and pure-minded artist better known to our times by his
conventual name of Fra Bartolommeo. "Never have we had among us such a
man; and if there be any light of grace in my soul, his preaching first
awakened it, brother. I only wait to see him enter Paradise, and then
I take farewell of the world forever. I am going to Prato to take the
Dominican habit, and follow him as near as I may."
"It is well, Baccio, it is well," said Father Antonio; "but you must not
put out the light of your genius in those shadows,--you must still paint
for the glory of God."
"I have no heart for painting now," said Baccio, dejectedly. "He was my
inspiration, he taught me the holier way, and he is gone."
At this moment the conference of the two was interrupted by a knocking
at the door, and Agostino Sarelli entered, pale and disordered.
"How is this?" he said, hastily. "What devils' carnival is this which
hath broken loose in Florence? Every good thing is gone into dens and
holes, and every vile thing that can hiss and spit and sting is crawling
abroad. What do the princes of Europe mean to let such things be?"
"Only the old story," said Father Antonio,--"_Principes convenerunt in
unum adversus Dominum, adversus Christum ejus_."
So much were all three absorbed in the subject of their thoughts, that
no kind of greeting or mark of recognition passed among them, such as is
common when people meet after temporary separation. Each spoke out from
the fulness of his soul, as from an overflowing bitter fountain.
"Was there no one to speak for him,--no one to stand up for the pride of
Italy,--the man of his age?" said Agostino.
"There was one voice raised for him in the council," said Father
Antonio. "There was Agnolo Niccolini: a grave man is this Agnolo, and of
great experience in public affairs, and he spoke out his mind boldly. He
told them flatly, that, if they looked through the present time or the
past ages, they would not meet a man of such a high and noble order as
this, and that to lay at our door the blood of a man the like of whom
might not be born for centuries was too impious and execrable a thing to
be thought of. I'll warrant me, he made a rustling among them when he
said that, and the Pope's commissary--old Romalino--then whispered
and frowned; but Agnolo is a stiff old fellow when he once begins a
thing,--he never minded it, and went through with his say. It seems to
me he said that it was not for us to quench a light like this, capable
of giving lustre to the faith even when it had grown dim in other parts
of the world,--and not to the faith alone, but to all the arts and
sciences connected with it. If it were needed to put restraint on him,
he said, why not put him into some fortress, and give him commodious
apartments, with abundance of books, and pen, ink, and paper, where he
would write books to the honor of God and the exaltation of the holy
faith? He told them that this might be a good to the world, whereas
consigning him to death without use of any kind would bring on our
republic perpetual dishonor."
"Well said for him!" said Baccio, with warmth; "but I'll warrant me, he
might as well have preached to the north wind in March, his enemies are
in such a fury."
"Yes, yes," said Antonio, "it is just as it was of old: the chief
priests and Scribes and Pharisees were instant with loud voices,
requiring he should be put to death; and the easy Pilates, for fear of
the tumult, washed their hands of it."
"And now," said Agostino, "they are putting up a great gibbet in the
shape of a cross in the public square, where they will hang the three
holiest and best men of Florence!"
"I came through there this morning," said Baccio, "and there were young
men and boys shouting, and howling, and singing indecent songs, and
putting up indecent pictures, such as those he used to preach against.
It is just as you say. All things vile have crept out of their lair, and
triumph that the man who made them afraid is put down; and every house
is full of the most horrible lies about him,--things that they said he
confessed."
"Confessed!" said Father Antonio,--"was it not enough that they tore
and tortured him seven times, but they must garble and twist the very
words that he said in his agony? The process they have published is
foully falsified,--stuffed full of improbable lies; for I myself have
read the first draught of all he did say, just as Signor Ceccone took it
down as they were torturing him. I had it from Jacopo Manelli, canon of
our Duomo here, and he got it from Ceccone's wife herself. They not only
can torture and slay him, but they torture and slay his memory with
lies."
"Would I were in God's place for one day!" said Agostino, speaking
through his clenched teeth. "May I be forgiven for saying so."
"We are hot and hasty," said Father Antonio, "ever ready to call down
fire from heaven,--but, after all, 'the Lord reigneth, let the earth
rejoice.' 'Unto the upright there ariseth light in the darkness.' Our
dear father is sustained in spirit and full of love. Even when they
let him go from the torture, he fell on his knees, praying for his
tormentors."
"Good God! this passes me!" said Agostino, striking his hands together.
"Oh, wherefore hath a strong man arms and hands, and a sword, if he
must stand still and see such things done? If I had only my hundred
mountaineers here, I would make one charge for him to-morrow. If I could
only _do_ something!" he added, striding impetuously up and down the
cell and clenching his fists. "What! hath nobody petitioned to stay this
thing?"
"Nobody for him," said Father Antonio. "There was talk in the city
yesterday that Fra Domenico was to be pardoned; in fact, Romalino was
quite inclined to do it, but Battista Albert talked violently against
it, and so Romalino said, 'Well, a monk more or less isn't much matter,'
and then he put his name down for death with the rest. The order was
signed by both commissaries of the Pope, and one was Frà Turiano, the
general of our order, a mild man, full of charity, but unable to stand
against the Pope."
"Mild men are nuisances in such places", said Agostino, hastily; "our
times want something of another sort."
"There be many who have fallen away from him even in our house here,"
said Father Antonio,--"as it was with our blessed Lord, whose disciples
forsook him and fled. It seems to be the only thought with some how they
shall make their peace with the Pope."
"And so the thing will be hurried through to-morrow," said Agostino,
"and when it's done and over, I'll warrant me there will be found kings
and emperors to say they meant to have saved him. It's a vile, evil
world, this of ours; an honorable man longs to see the end of it. But,"
he added, coming up and speaking to Father Antonio, "I have a private
message for you."
"I am gone this moment," said Baccio, rising with ready courtesy; "but
keep up heart, brother."
So saying, the good-hearted artist left the cell, and Agostino said,--
"I bring tidings to you of your kindred. Your niece and sister are here
in Florence, and would see you. You will find them at the house of one
Gherardo Rosselli, a rich citizen of noble blood."
"Why are they there?" said the monk, lost in amazement.
You must know, then, that a most singular discovery hath been made
by your niece at Rome. The sister of her father, being a lady of the
princely blood of Colonna, hath been assured of her birth by the
confession of the priest that married him; and being driven from Rome by
fear of the Borgias, they came hither under my escort, and wait to see
you. So, if you will come with me now, I will guide you to them."
"Even so," said Father Antonio.