Читать книгу The Carnival of Florence - Bowen Marjorie - Страница 6

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Andrea Salvucci left the Villa degli Albizzi as the sun was nearing the hills and walked slowly through the ineffably sweet evening airs to the house of the Conte della Mirandola in the Via Larga.

He was troubled with many things, stung, despite his resolution, with the definite loss of Aprilis, vexed at Cristofano's light assertions of his complicity in a plot against the Medici, and, as always, distracted and disheartened by the complexities of this life of Florence in which he found himself involved.

When he first left his ruined estates in the little hill republic of San Gimignano he had found Florence beautiful beyond words, and had felt no other desire than to spend his life among these people, so refined, cultured and learned, so devoted to the finest loveliness of art and literature. But now he almost disliked them; their indifference, their sophistry, their inaction, their enthusiasm for the artificial, the cynicism of their over-culture, and the hidden cruelties and wrongs beneath their urbane manners began to weary him, for he was naturally earnest and sincere.

Even Cristofano, whom he loved and admired, Cristofano, with his passionate love for the classics, his purchase of antique statues and vases, his learned dissertations on Plato and Aristotle—and his friendship with Fra Girolamo and submission to the sternest Christian doctrines—he was an enigma, he clothed his contradictions with that half-mockery which baffled Andrea in so many Florentines. It was true that Andrea himself had fallen under the fascination of the great revival of ancient learning and the great discovery of ancient beauty, and he did not know either whether this was of the devils or of God, but he fought his difficulties with anguish of spirit, and strove sincerely to come to a conclusion that would bring peace to his soul—but Cristofano smiled and shrugged and seemed indifferent alike to Christ or Pan, the Virgin or Venus, though he declared himself willing to devote himself to one or the other—when in one or the other he should wholly believe.

There seemed to Andrea a sophistry in this not in accordance with earnest endeavour after the truth; he thought Cristofano played with mighty things, and that repulsed him from his friend.

The young Albizzi had told him that the Magnifico had heard he was one of the Piagnoni—as the followers of Fra Girolamo were called—and had sent for him, obviously with the object of discovering the aims and scope of the friar's party, and that he had refused to go, and that Piero had entreated him, and that finally the interview had been arranged to take place at the Medici villa at Cafaggiuolo, in the evening of the first day of the Carnival of San Giovanni.

Andrea had asked why so far outside the city as Cafaggiuolo, and why the Carnival eve?

Cristofano had laughed and said that the Medici liked secrecy and mystery, and that indeed it was as well, for if the interview were blabbed over Florence it would do no good to any.

Andrea sensed circles within circles of subtle policies that were beyond his grasp; he had, like his master, always kept away from the intrigues of Florence. He was surprised that Cristofano was already so well known a follower of Fra Girolamo as to be accepted by the Medici as a Piagnone, and this seemed to him very inconsistent with much of what Cristofano said; he began to think Cristofano ambitious. Nor could he well associate the charming figure of the young man standing in the stone-cutter's shop with the black and red vase in his hand and the gaunt and terrible form of the friar.

Andrea could not understand.

"If I believed as Fra Girolamo believes I would follow him, barefoot and in sackcloth," he thought.

As he turned through the Porta Romana and came from the open country into the busy streets the pleasantness of the city struck him again irresistibly, almost against his will. To-morrow was the feast of San Giovanni Baptista, the patron saint of the city; it was the most important holiday of the year, and since their rule, the Medici had, with their usual encouragement of all that was gay and splendid, turned this festival into a second Carnival, lasting eight days. Already the various guilds, the dyers, the wool combers, the masons, the leather dressers, the barber surgeons, the silk weavers and all the major and minor crafts were decorating their quarters with silk hangings and pennons and images of their patron saints, so that the dark streets, with the tall, overhanging houses, were bright with gleams of colour. The flag of the Republic was waving above the tower of the Palazzo della Signoria, and in the Loggia dei Priori opposite rich squares of tapestry had been displayed against the walls.

Marzocco, the stone emblematic lion of Florence in the Piazza della Signoria, was being wreathed with laurel and palms.

Andrea turned down the Via dei Calzaioli, which the guild of the shoemakers had gorgeously decorated, and pushed his way through the press of people to the Piazza del Duomo, where Santa Maria del Fiore and the Campanile rose heavenwards, two of the wonders of the world, majestic, huge in size, and glowing in the sunset light with the rose and ochre, pearl and dull blue of the inlaid marbles of their walls; high into the fading brightness of the sky Brunelleschi's dome, result of one man's genius and patience, symbol of endeavour and attainment, raised the white lantern into the last sunlight.

A few paces brought Andrea past the heavy pile of the massive Medici palace to the small house where the Conte della Mirandola lived when in Florence. He found his master just returned from Settignano and sitting alone in his twilit study.

This looked on a stone courtyard, where the sun had long ceased to fall and where a fountain splashed between palms in terra-cotta vases.

The Conte was at the window, resting his chin in his hand, and his elbow on the narrow ledge; in the half dark his graceful figure in the long dark robe, with the full curls flowing on to his shoulders, looked like that of a woman.

"Messere Conte, am I late?" asked Andrea. "I thought that you would return after dark."

Delia Mirandola turned like one roused from deep thought, and said no, and asked for a light. Andrea lit and trimmed a little lamp of antique shape which stood on a bracket in one corner. The clear soft light showed the small elegant room, the walls painted in red, black and white, the floor tiled in the same colours, the black furniture, the desk holding a bust of Plato and a vase of lilies, the bookcases filled with costly volumes and a most beautiful painting of a lady's head in profile. It showed, too, this warm lamplight, the face of the Conte as he sat against the darkness of the window, his head still resting in his hand, a whimsical, fair and most pleasant face, the full eyes, the sensitive nostrils, the arched mouth, all tilted slightly upwards at the corners, the complexion smooth and unlined, the hair thick and fair, falling round the firm oval of his face; he was clearly not of Florence.

Giovanni Pico, Conte della Mirandola, not yet thirty years of age, was already celebrated for his learning, his art, his beauty, his love of science and eloquence throughout Italy and France.

No man, save only Lorenzo dei Medici had been so celebrated as the young prince, scholar and philosopher who had been the first to introduce the study of Oriental tongues into Europe, who was credited with the knowledge of twenty-three languages, and whose famous tournament of learning held at Rome, consisting of nine hundred propositions propounded by himself, which he defied the scholarly world to answer, had brought him into disgrace with the Pope for the daring of his theological questions. Mirandola had submitted to Innocent and written an apology, and soon after settled at Florence, where he became the close friend of Lorenzo, Ficino and Poliziano—in brief, the most brilliant figure in the most brilliant city in the world.

Andrea's common sense had soon shown him that the Conte's reputation outstripped his merits—he was not the paragon he was commonly supposed to be, and still a long way from his boasted goal of universal knowledge.

But he was eager, ardent in the pursuit of wisdom, he was in the forefront of the intellectual movement of his time, and in himself he was gentle, brilliant, gay and very lovable. Since the death of Lorenzo he had lived a more retired life, his fame suffered some eclipse as men's attention was turned to the new Medici and his friends.

Mirandola threw himself with fresh ardour into his studies; he was at present engaged in studying the grammar of the Hebrew language and in planning a Latin work, the theme and object of which was to reconcile Paganism and Christianity.

For the Conte was, despite the width of his knowledge and the depth of his studies, still an orthodox Catholic. And this fact sometimes comforted Andrea and sometimes filled him with despair.

To-night Mirandola looked pale and tired; the secretary, who was sincerely fond of him, decided that he had been in ill health of late and too closely confined with his books.

"Messere is tired after the journey?" he said.

Giovanni Pico shook his head and smiled gently. "I found a Greek in Settignano; he sold me this," he answered, and, as if there needed no other reason or excuse for his journey or his fatigue, he took from the gold-laced purse at his side a flat stone and held it up before the lamp flame.

It was a sardonyx, and contained all the colours of liquid gold, melting amber, soft honey and the clear brown of tarn water.

In the centre, where the hues darkened to a burning flush, was cut in intaglio a Venus kneeling in an open shell. The fine curls of her flying hair mingled with the delicate ripples of the sea, her soft body was half concealed, half revealed by the fluted circle of the double shells, one exquisite foot rested on the surf.

The gem was so beautiful that the two young men looked at it in silence.

It was more than a mere jewel, an ornament—it seemed a window into another world, to reveal the distances of a magic sea—the loveliness of a land long lost to men. Nay, not lost, Andrea thought, but only vanished for a while, and in gazing at the frail lines of the minute Venus, through which the lamp smote a light that quivered like life itself, he felt a return of that awe that always touched him before this resurrected beauty; as if some evil charm and power lay in these strange, alien and silent things. The Conte put the stone back in his pocket, and fixing his large clear eyes on the lamplight, asked quietly:

"Did you go to hear Fra Girolamo preach to-day?"

Andrea was surprised at the question, which gave his thoughts a violent turn.

"No," he said. "To-day I went to Santa Croce. I do not love preaching."

Then he thought of Cristofano degli Albizzi; he wondered if he should ask his master to use his influence with the Magnifico on Cristofano's behalf—to say that the Albizzi was only playing at conspiracy and was not to be seriously treated.

Then he considered that any such interference would be foolishness; and how could he be sure Cristofano was not serious. While he stood silent, the Conte spoke again.

"Fra Girolamo spoke again of the coming of Vengeance into Italy—he prophesied that the Conqueror would enter Florence within the year. Angelo Poliziano was there—he told me."

The note of intense interest, almost yearning, in the Conte's voice further surprised Andrea; he knew that Mirandola had met the friar at Reggio some years before, and that he had ever since been interested in the strange Dominican, but he had never imagined this interest to be a personal one.

"I would rather have been in the Duomo to-day than at Settignano," added Mirandola.

"Even at the cost of losing the Venus on the sand?" asked Andrea sharply.

The Conte looked at him strangely.

"Fra Girolamo thinks such things sinful," he said—"thinks them a danger to the soul, full of evil."

"You too!" cried Andrea. "You too, Messere! Has all your learning given you no buckler against such thoughts?"

The young prince was silent; his long white hands turned over the costly parchment volumes of Greek and Hebrew which lay on the burdened desk.

"Forgive me," said Andrea, thinking he was offended—"forgive, Ser Conte, but I am troubled in my own mind about these things."

Mirandola turned to him with an instant smile of sweetness.

"I was not vexed, but thoughtful. Lately the world has greatly changed to me. Learning, science and wisdom no longer allure me as they did. I see that I was very vain and arrogant in my boasted knowledge. And the preaching of this friar moves me strangely, and, Andrea, when I discourse with him I am inspired to join his brethren."

This confession shook and saddened Andrea; if Pico della Mirandola turned from the pride and beauty of the world, the golden fruits of knowledge, the ancient lores, the splendours and powers of wisdom, to the gaunt outline of the Cross, who was to resist that stern appeal, that grim command, 'Sell all thou hast and follow Me'?—these words seemed to ring in Andrea's ears as he listened to the Conte.

"This friar is terrible," he said.

"He is already a great power in Florence," returned the Conte; "the Medici hate and fear him."

Andrea thought of the Magnifico sending to Cristofano as to the emissary of an enemy to be considered.

"What will Fra Girolamo make of Florence?" he asked sadly.

"He aims to reform Italy," said Delia Mirandola, "to cast out sin and suffering and corruption from the land, to put down the Pope and all tyrants—is not that a nobler ambition than the writing of books?"

And the young man looked at his volumes and manuscripts almost contemptuously.

"But you, Messere, were a friend of the Medici."

"Of Lorenzo, yes—never of Piero or his cousins," answered Mirandola, "never of his brother either, though the Cardinal is brilliant."

He seated himself at his desk and began cutting a quill; he looked so fatigued that Andrea was sure he was ill. The secretary said nothing, however, but brought down the lexicons ready for the usual evening's task. Suddenly Pico della Mirandola rose again.

"Have you ever spoken to Fra Girolamo?" he asked.

"No," answered Andrea. "I have heard him preach—twice."

"Come with me now—come to San Marco and speak to him," said the Conte, with a certain eagerness. Andrea slightly shuddered, for he felt himself being drawn nearer to an influence he had always endeavoured to avoid. "Come," repeated Mirandola.

The secretary, without a word, took up his cap and followed into the street.

The moon was already high and the sky showed purple, flooded with liquid silver above the dark roofs of the high palaces of the Via Larga; the square pile of the Medici palazzo gleamed with light; three young students, arm in arm, were singing one of Lorenzo's carnival songs, the quick gay tune rang in the street like a sharp peal of bells. Turning in the opposite direction to the Medici palace, Mirandola and his companion walked up the Via Larga, a few yards brought them to the little piazza of San Marco, where stood the church and convent of the Dominicans, founded by Cosimo, the father of Lorenzo, and first of the Medici to rule over Florence.

Before they reached this piazza Andrea turned to look at a new and handsome palace on the other side of the street.

It was one recently built by Ser Rosario dei Fiorivanti—the home, shrine and citadel that contained Aprilis. She was there now in the loggia that looked on to the street; behind her was the thin figure of her father and the stout figures of her female guardians. The light of one of the lamps hanging in the arches of the loggia fell on her face, the long fine rings of gold hair, and her bust and shoulders, across which her blue drapery was slightly ruffled by the low evening breeze.

It seemed impossible that she should detect him in the darkness, yet Andrea thought she looked at him with her clear brown eyes and smiled tremblingly as she had smiled that morning in the church of Santa Croce. And to the young man's excited fancy her impassive loveliness partook of the look of the winged Victory and the Venus on the sardonyx as much as of the look of the Madonna, to whom her gentle expression of purity seemed to liken her. Her face was quickly lost in the cross shadows of the street, but it remained in Andrea's memory, even when the lay brother had admitted them through the door of the convent into the cloister, that of San Antonio, or the dead, where the pavement was close set with tombs and the walls showed memorial paintings.

In the grass square of the cloister, roses and laurel grew, and there the still moonlight shone on the last of the pallid blooms and the dark motionless foliage of the straight, sharp-leaved bushes.

In the square of sky above was the moon herself, looking cold and remote, almost at the full and dazzling. The joyous noises of the street came muffled to this solitude.

Andrea, feeling himself surrounded by the dead and isolated in the monastery, shivered as if a chill wind had touched his flesh.

Pico della Mirandola asked for the Prior, Fra Girolamo. The lay brother turned instantly across the moonlit cloister, begging the visitors to follow him; Andrea perceived that the Conte was better known at San Marco than he had supposed.

They passed into the second cloister of San Domenico, where the night air was heavy with the sweets of unseen flowers, then entered the convent building by a door to the right which led immediately to a steep flight of stairs. These were lit only by the pale tongue of flame of a wall lamp, and were obscured by long dismal shadows; the air was hot and close and the silence seemed not the silence of solitude, but the silence of a great many people listening. Andrea felt as if he were ascending into a prison.