Читать книгу The Carnival of Florence - Bowen Marjorie - Страница 5

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The two young men passed the Villa Orsini on the summit of the Roggio Baroncelli and turned to the left towards the high-placed little church of Santa Margharita al Montici, which rose on the hills behind San Miniato. The road—winding, narrow, dusty—twisted between low walls enclosing fruit and kitchen gardens and slopes of olive and corn; below lay Florence, backed by the Apennines, above them, on the other side of the road, the hill continued to rise; there a few houses showed between the groves of chestnut, cypress and oak. In this pleasant part Cristofano degli Albizzi had a small villa; he was a cadet of a family that had at one time rivalled in pretensions and power the Medici themselves, and who now, though they had been hopelessly worsted in the struggle for supremacy, still maintained a secret and strong opposition to the family which reigned over Florence in the person of Piero, son of the great Lorenzo.

Andrea believed that it was for this reason that Cristofano supported Fra Girolamo, the Dominican friar who daily denounced the iniquities of Florence, for an enemy of the Medici must be a friend of the Albizzi.

But Cristofano was neither indiscreet nor truculent. Greatly interested in the revival of classic learning, which had taken cultured Florence by storm, a former pupil of Marsilio Ficino's Platonic Academy, yet, orthodox in his support of Church and Pope, he seemed one destined to live quietly and avoid the dangerous places of life.

Walking slowly and conversing very little, the two friends reached the last rise of the hill, and paused at the foot of the steep last height, where the little church of Santa Margharita crowned the summit. They seated themselves on the low stone coping that here divided the road from the orchards, and looked down through the fruit trees at Florence, which lay golden in the sun that filled the valley of the Arno like wine poured into a cup.

A mulberry tree laden with white fruit shaded them; there was no one else in sight, and they sat silent in the great stillness, gazing down at the lovely city lying remote beneath them.

The clear green of vines, now covered with clusters of vivid hard grapes, the broad leaves and soft fruit of fig trees, the silver colour of olives mingled with the erect dark forms of cypress, the red-gold patches of corn, among which grew cherry, peach, almond, apple and pear trees, the luscious green patches of unripe grain, the pale gold hues of barley and of oats sloped in one richness of abundance down to the very walls of the city.

Here and there a cottage showed, set white and square on some brow of the hill, with a terrace wreathed in the last dark red, climbing roses, or an oleander bush covered with pearl-pink blossoms before the door, or a pomegranate tree blazing scarlet flowers at the porch.

Nothing could well have been more beautiful than this prospect, nothing more gorgeous than the towered city lying enclosed in the opulent hills.

Almost in the centre rose the pale red dome of Santa Maria del Fiore, beside it the tower of the Campanile, from this distance looking ivory white, beyond the smaller dome of San Lorenzo, and before all the soaring, darker tower of the Palazzo della Signoria, that proud emblem of the might and freedom of the Florentines—double battlemented, a menace and a challenge to the stranger. Nearer showed the graceful length of San Miniato, and in between the bulk of the great palaces, and the stretches of red-roofed and white-fronted houses, rose the famous towers and the watch-houses on the great walls, their metal pennons and weather-cocks stiff and glittering above the city.

To the right there was a glimpse of the yellow waters of the Arno as they flowed down into the town, beyond was the gracious outline of the Apennines, the villas round San Domenico and Fiesole and the lift of Monte Senario above Pratolino. To each young man the prospect was indeed familiar, yet both looked at the panorama stretched before them with an interest and admiration as of strangers as well as with the love of friends.

Yet to Andrea, who was not a Florentine, the magnificence of the distant city was as deceitful as had seemed the holy atmosphere of Santa Croce.

"How grand and serene and noble she looks!" he exclaimed. "And how full of lies and pettiness and wrong and misery she is!"

Cristofano smiled.

"That is but to say man's work outshines himself," he replied. "He can build these churches, these towers, these walls, so full of majesty and power, but for himself he remains for ever creeping on the earth."

Andrea did not answer.

"Fra Girolamo says these things are snares," continued Cristofano, "that all beauty, all magnificence, all science, all learning, but block the way to God."

"He would make us all bare-footed friars," said Andrea, "passing our days in mortification and prayer—is he right? Or were the ancients right? Cristofano, lately there has been a singular division in my soul—shall one gain heaven by renouncing the world, or shall we enjoy heaven on earth as the pagans did, worshipping all beauty and splendour, exalting the body? Is Fra Girolamo right in his prophecies of death and disaster and terror on those who enjoy what the earth offers them?"

Cristofano pointed to the sumptuous landscape.

"Whatever does nature—the earth herself—give?" he answered. "Does she teach mortification, self-denial, self-torture, self-abnegation?"

"But the thought of these things are in the souls of men," said Andrea, "otherwise we should be as the beasts."

"They were not in the souls of the ancients, my Andrea. What could the man who sculptured that winged Victory you purchased to-day have thought of our emaciated, bleeding, creeping saints and martyrs? He would have turned away in horror—ay, even from the mangled Christ, for to him ugliness was sin."

Andrea slightly shuddered.

"Yet you follow Fra Girolamo!" he exclaimed, almost in reproof.

"I follow no one," replied the young patrician calmly, "yet do not imagine that I escape the shadow of the cross—I cannot. Awful, sinister, it looms over the whole world, and from it comes a terrible voice, crying, 'Thou shalt not!' to all our sweet desires. I, no more than another, can escape. I bow, I bend, I try to expiate. When Fra Girolamo speaks of the wrath to come I shake to my soul—I believe. Yet, when I am free—as now—in the open air—I wish I had been born a pagan. I wish I had lived and died ignorant of this sacrifice under which the whole world groans—I wish that I had been one of those men who never knew that Christ bled to save them."

He spoke these last words with a sudden emotion that was almost passion, and lent back wearily against the thick bent stem of the mulberry tree.

Andrea looked at him eagerly; his own feelings were so much the same—the unconquerable instinct towards those things Christianity called anathema—the recoil from those things Christianity upheld, yet therewith the inability to break away from the faith that dominated the world, the shuddering belief in hell, the cowering from the eye of God—all this was known to Andrea, perhaps to most men in this end of the fifteenth century after Christ.

"Yet," said he, continuing his thoughts aloud, "how many are not troubled at all—how many do their pleasure, say their prayers and sleep well of nights!"

"They believe that repentance will save them," smiled Cristofano. "For me it is impossible to credit that I may do as I like and hoodwink God with a prayer or a handful of money—nay, one or the other, all or nothing."

"Then you must join San Marco or become as godless as the Magnifico!" cried Andrea.

Cristofano looked grave.

"If I could be sure, I should become a novice certainly," he answered. "If I could disbelieve it all I would live my life to the full, even as does Piero dei Medici. As it is—"

He broke off and pulled a spray of the white, feathery-flowered clematis from the tangled branches that grew over the wall.

"As it is, we drift," said Andrea; "for me I envy men like the Medici, like Ludovico Sforza, like the Pope—men who dare to the utmost and still can believe themselves safe with heaven."

"The Magnifico and the Duke of Milan," replied Cristofano, "serve a superstition only—they are not men of probing wits or eager souls—and the Pope—"

"He has wit enough," smiled Andrea.

"He is a Borgia," said Cristofano, "and if there is a devil the Borgia must be of his breed and under his protection—they fear nothing, believe nothing—perhaps they are to be envied."

Andrea sat silently looking at the city and the landscape, that serene and careless beauty which seemed to mock at their discussion, at the futile terms with which they feebly strove to unravel the confusions of the world. The two young men themselves were fitting figures for the scene; Cristofano was beyond the common—handsome, slight, graceful—and of a type rare but much admired in Tuscany.

His complexion was golden pale, his eyes a clear brown, his hair the colour of a deerskin and falling in thick curls on to his shoulders; his well-shaped but slightly thick lips and nostrils balanced the spiritual look of his open brow and candid eyes; the chin was firm and a little heavy, giving an impression of a character haughty and materialistic; the whole face, oval shaped and close shaved after the Florentine fashion, was both beautiful and pleasing, the dreariness of the expression being atoned by the masculine firmness of the lines.

He was in his twenty-eighth year and serious in his deportment; his attire was a loose, white-belted coat to the knees, open at the throat on a close-drawn, cambric shirt, red hose and leather shoes and a flat cap with a single heron's feather.

Andrea was within a few months of the same age, but slightly taller, of a stouter build, a more impetuous manner and eager carriage, with a dark face, irregular and animated features and curling black hair.

He was dressed as simply as Cristofano in green doublet and white hose; he too was close shaved and wore his hair into his neck.

A gentle breeze blew through the fruit trees and bent the heads of the corn, but the veils of heat over Florence remained undisturbed, the air above the town quivered with sparks of gold.

The languor of the soft heat was like a drug in the blood, the silence of the fields and orchards seemed the silence of enchantment, purple and blue butterflies darted in among the olive trees, the fine green blossoms of which fell in a shower beneath them; beetles of a lustrous metallic-green colour whirred overhead, a few faint milk-white clouds floated above the distant Apennines.

"Did you not love Madonna Aprilis?" asked Cristofano, half closing his eyes dreamily.

"I do not know," said Andrea. "I thought I loved her—I have thought of little else for a year, but I have tried to combat this love—even before I knew of her betrothal to-day."

"Why should you love her?" asked Cristofano lazily. "She is like a thousand other girls in Florence, she is not noble nor learned, she has been trained to think of nothing but her beauty."

"For her beauty I cared," said the lover. "She is very exquisite—I wanted her, young and immaculate as she is, I wished to possess her, as one wishes to possess a white rosebud, and crush it open to the heart."

"There are many white rosebuds in Florence," returned his friend. "Why must you set your mind on Madonna Aprilis?"

"That is what I have asked myself—that is what I have argued with myself—yet still my unreasonable thoughts turn to her."

"Unreasonable, indeed!—what has she? Nothing but that fairness she spends her days in preserving. For the rest she is a blank—a tablet of virgin wax. I know these ladies."

"You speak bitterly."

"Not bitterly—but I marvel at love—love such as yours. A fair woman is like a fair flower, to be admired and passed by, or to be plucked and cast aside. And there are so many of them."

"Now you speak like a pagan," smiled Andrea. "Yet I admit your reason—it is foolish to fix capricious fancy on a woman who is unknown to one save for her fairness."

"You perchance are mystical and full of dreams—you follow the fashion for platonic love," returned Cristofano lightly. "Well, when Madonna Aprilis is wed you may become spiritual lovers—as poor Guiliano dei Medici and Simonetta—why not? And a second time make Florence stare at the marvels of platonic love."

"You mock at me," said Andrea, "but your words do not touch me greatly, for I have almost ceased to think of Madonna Aprilis."

This was not true, for the memory of the face that had been so close to his in the doorway of Santa Croce was coming again vividly before him; to prevent the subject from being further discussed he asked, with indifferent gaiety:

"Is there no woman in your heart, Cristofano?"

The young noble twisted the clematis between his fingers.

"None," he answered. "Nor will there be until I can find one who is Madonna and Venus in one—soul and body perfect—such I might worship if I could never attain, but the beauties tripping along the Lung' Arno do not stir me. And I am thinking of other things, my Andrea." His friend did not know when to take Cristofano seriously; he could never be quite sure how much of the Albizzi's lightness and indifference was assumed, how much real purpose was concealed beneath this manner.

"What things now?" he asked.

Cristofano put his hand out from the shade of the mulberry tree and laid it on the parapet, where the sun now burnt with sufficient force to scorch the flesh.

"It is too hot here," he remarked. "Come to my villa; it is pleasant in the grounds."

He rose, the drifted olive blossoms like a green dust in the folds of his white coat and in his hair.

"You put me off," said Andrea.

"Nay—I will be frank—what is occupying me is a plot—plots."

Andrea was unpleasantly surprised.

"Plots?"

"Are you startled?" Cristofano laughed. "Every Florentine is plotting."

"This is Fra Girolamo's doing," cried Andrea as he rose.

"No; the friar does not intrigue."

Andrea put his hand on the other's sleeve and lowered his voice.

"Plots against the Medici?" he asked.

Cristofano turned his charming face calmly towards his friend.

"Yes, you might call it that," he said; "a plot at least to cast Piero dei Medici and his family from Florence."

"Leave that to time; he has not so firm a seat," replied Andrea, "but that he will eventually fall. Why meddle?"

"It is too long a story for now," returned Cristofano; "the intrigue amuses me at least."

"But is dangerous?"

"Hardly. The Signoria do not love the Medici."

Half wearily, half moved, Andrea protested.

"Leave it to Fra Girolamo's tongue to drive Piero out of Florence!"

"I tell you this amuses me—is it not as good an occupation as collecting vases and antique statues, and reading ancient philosophy?" replied Cristofano half jestingly.

They turned back the way they had come, the olives and the corn showing above the low wall above them, below the view of Florence now and then obscured by rising ground; the dust of the road was full of the minute blossoms of the olive, the rich heads of the corn stalks against the deep blue sky were mingled here and there with the dark boughs of ilex and laurel.

The steady bell of Santa Margharita beat on the windless air with an insistent note.

"The world is so beautiful," sighed Andrea. "And you think of plots!"

"And you of Madonna Aprilis!"

"And both of us of God and Devil—and Fra Girolamo and Venus!"

Smiling, they paused by the open iron gates in the wall which led to the Villa degli Albizzi; the vista towards the house was of the same opulent plenty—corn, fig trees, vines, roses, lilies, poppies, bordering the avenue. Either side the gate grew a tall cypress, beneath it a myrtle bush starred with wax-like flowers.

Here the walls were higher and hid Florence and the hills; the young men were enclosed in the narrow road, with the trees shading them, and before them the open gate, with the view of the avenue and sloping gardens.

"Can one not forget everything here?" asked Andrea.

"Nay," said Cristofano; "do you not hear the Christian bell?"

They turned in at the gates and passed between the flowers and the corn, the fruit trees and the vines; the sun was now directly overhead, and the long rays fell with the power of a sword on the earth; the loud whirring noise of the grasshoppers was heard incessantly.

As the terrace and white front of the house came in sight Cristofano took his friend's arm.

"Listen," he said; "to-morrow I go to see the Magnifico at Cafaggiuolo."

"You—to see Piero dei Medici!" whispered Andrea.

Cristofano's full sweet lips curved into a smile half mischievous.

"It is secret—a secret diplomatic mission—you see how deep I am in conspiracy."