Читать книгу The Carnival of Florence - Bowen Marjorie - Страница 7

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A door at the top of the stairs admitted them to a long corridor, from which the narrow entrances to the cells opened either side; this was the top floor, and the cross-barred wooden roof rose high above the lower roofs of the cells, giving a curious effect of space and openness; the Dominican passed this corridor and entered another similar, which ran along that front of the building which faced the piazza.

All was simple and faintly lit, but not gloomy; the red floor and the open roof even gave an air of cheerfulness. Yet Andrea still felt imprisoned; he thought how strange in these surroundings looked the worldly figure of the Conte, with the gold embroidery on his sleeves and his shining, well-dressed hair.

The lay brother went a little ahead and entered the door at the extreme end of the corridor; after a second he returned and said the Prior would see the Conte and his friend. Andrea followed Mirandola through the narrow door which admitted into the cell of Fra Girolamo.

This was but slightly larger than that of the nethern square, paved in red, lit by a small window looking on the piazza to the left, and on the right opening on an inner cell of similar proportions; three beautiful paintings by Fra Angelico da Fiesole were the sole adornments, there were two chairs and a long table, which held a small iron lamp.

The inner door was ajar, and a deep voice came from behind it, bidding them enter.

Andrea was angry with himself for shrinking back—why should he hesitate to enter though into the presence of Girolamo Savonarola, the Ferrarese monk who had chosen as his mission the regeneration of Florence?

There was nothing wonderful in the history of this man, unless it was the way he had defied the Medici, the builders and patrons of this very convent, and the manner in which his stern doctrines had gained him a reputation in the most corrupt of cities.

"Why should I be afraid of him?" asked Andrea, "he is neither God nor Devil."

And he stepped forward to encounter the Prior of San Marco. The monk had risen from a desk to meet them; the cell was even smaller than the outer one, and Fra Girolamo seemed to fill it from floor to ceiling. His immense height struck Andrea with terror; he had never seemed so tall in the pulpit, under the vast space of the Duomo.

Afterwards Andrea thought that this effect of supernatural size was a delusion, due to the scanty light of the lamp on the desk and the heavy folds of the monk's robe.

Be that as it may, for the moment the Prior seemed to tower.

Mirandola stooped to kiss his hand, and Andrea observed him with an eager, almost bitter curiosity.

Savonarola's appearance was remarkable, and, despite his profession, his fame and his known life, neither holy nor saintly.

The features were heavy, gaunt and powerful; the nose large, arched and overhanging; the nostrils and lips thick as those of a sensualist; the skin coarse, sallow, and of a bilious look; the eyes small, unnaturally glowing and deep-set under ragged black brows.

It was a countenance that bore traces of great, but hardly resigned, suffering—the pain of desperate self-torture of mind and body—the agony of a fury of self-sacrifice. The expression that animated this face with terrible, almost unearthly power, was principally pride—the passionate, boundless pride of one who considers himself the chosen instrument of heaven, and combined with this was a look of hate—hate and contempt for the things that opposed him, wrath for the sins of the world.

Andrea could see neither peace nor sweetness nor meekness in this terrible face of the prophet and preacher of Christ, rather was it the face of one engaged in bitter conflict and swayed by frantic passions, than that of one who had attained to any calm. As Andrea in his turn kissed the long, full-veined hand, he felt the flesh hot to his lips, and his sense of the terror and power of this man increased, until he felt the beating of his own heart.

"I have disturbed you, Fra Girolamo," said Mirandola in a low voice, and he glanced remorsefully at the pages before the Prior, which, covered with a minute writing, still glistened with wet ink.

"The moment is past," returned Savonarola in an exhausted tone. "When I returned from the Duomo, I had a vision of the wrath to come. I heard warning voices from the sky, I saw the tyrants of the earth shaken as with a great wind, and blood running in the streets of Florence, and above Rome a black shadow like the trail of the skirts of doom."

"It is ever so," said Pico della Mirandola mournfully. "Father, your visions are ever of dread and horror."

"What else, think you, will come on the earth unless righteous living be established?" asked Savonarola fiercely.

His powerful gaze dwelt on the pleasant beauty of the young man and his expression softened; he seated himself.

"What do you want with me?" he questioned. "Come, what do you want with me, and who is this other?"

Andrea noticed that his air and tone were of great authority; he seemed one born to rule, to dominate; one who would rule the world, if he could.

"This is Messere Andrea Salvucci," replied the Conte, "who is troubled with many things—as I am. And we come to you, father, for comfort."

"Comfort!" repeated the Prior; he leaned forward in his chair, till his cowl was over his face, throwing heavy shadows on the rough lines.

There was nothing in the cell beyond the desk with the books, the chair, two stools and a painting of the Crucified Christ on canvas fastened to a pole, the standard which Savonarola used to carry with him through the streets in procession.

Andrea felt oppressed by the bare, close, ill-lit cell, and by the tremendous personality of the monk. Looking closely at him, Savonarola said:

"What are your troubles, my son?"

The young man hung his head like a child; an agitation of formless thoughts seized him.

"The world no longer pleases him," said Pico della Mirandola, "he is distressed because he knows not which way to go."

Andrea wondered how the Conte had divined this.

"Is it not so?" continued the low, cultured voice of the young prince. "Learning and wisdom, work and pleasure no longer satisfy—we, too, hear the warning voices and hear the clash of swords and the wail of the dying—we, too, would fly from the wrath to come."

The Prior's face brightened.

"Is this true?" he asked, and he looked at Andrea.

The young man felt a sudden swelling excitement; supposing he did try and tell something of his trouble, supposing he did put to the test the help Fra Girolamo could be to such as he?

Supposing he made confession of everything save Aprilis, would the monk understand or aid?

"Is it true," asked Fra Girolamo, "that you are tired of the profligacy of Florence?"

Andrea raised his smooth face, now slightly flushed.

"It is true, father, that I am much confused in my mind by what I see about me. When I was very young I wished to become a monk. Now, again, that desire comes over me, yet I love the world."

"That may be combated by prayer and fasting," said Savonarola, "until the Divine Grace has strengthened you to overcome lusts and longings, Messere."

"Nay, father," answered Andrea. "Those things do not disturb me. The coarse lusts of the world do not allure me. I have always been of a serious, contemplative mind, given to solitude and meditation."

"What then is your temptation?" asked the monk. Andrea drew a deep breath.

"How can I explain? The joy of beauty, the power of knowledge, the grace of culture, the spell of the ancient philosophers—the magic of ancient loneliness, the wonders of science, these things are my temptations, father."

Savonarola appeared utterly astonished.

"These things weigh with you against the fear of God?" he cried.

"Are they wrong?" asked Andrea.

"They are abominations of the devil," returned the Prior angrily.

The young man answered in a passionate despair.

"Father, I have loved these pursuits all my life—can I help loving them that are so mighty and beautiful?"

"How can there be might and beauty where there is not Christ?" demanded Savonarola fiercely. Andrea was silent and Pico della Mirandola said softly:

"Father, do you not understand beauty?"

"I understand the beauty of God," said the monk, with great sternness.

"But not the beauty of other things?"

"Where there is not God I see no beauty."

The Conte sighed.

"This is a hard doctrine. Father, what of science and learning, is there no goodness in these?"

"All the learning we need is to study the way of purity and righteousness. And science is invented of the devil to snare and distract men from God."

The finality of this unhesitating judgment fell like a blow on Andrea's indecisions; he writhed under it, as a man knocked down will writhe to get to his feet again.

"There is so much in the world, Fra Girolamo," he cried, and his voice was rough with protest. "Can you dismiss it all so lightly? There is the Duke of Milan's mathematician who has invented birds that fly, and says he will make men fly also, he makes wonderful machines too; and though he has never eaten flesh or loved a woman, he paints pictures of such a loveliness that they make the senses swoon."

"This is Messere Leonardo da Vinci," said Savonarola, "the servant of a tyrant and a usurper; he is no better than a wizard, and all his tricks are done by black magic. The day will come when he and his works will be tumbled together into the pit of everlasting perdition."

"And the Genoese, Messere Colombo who says he can discover the Fortunate Isles or perhaps Paradise, who says there is a new world beyond the sea—is that, too, all of the devil?" asked Andrea eagerly.

A passionate movement shook the Prior's powerful frame.

"All, I tell you all!" he said, in his deep, rough, fatigued voice.

"All the arts, poetry, painting?"

"Unless they are devoted to the praise of God, these also are of the devil."

"And learning and philosophy?"

"What need has he of either who is fed by the Heavenly wisdom?"

Andrea shuddered.

"Father, when the peasants turn up antique statues in their vineyards and cornfields—beautiful things worth much money—the priests destroy them—are they right?"

"They are right," replied Savonarola. "What but evil can these heathen things bring? Have you not heard of the people of Siena who found a naked white woman in the ground and put her up in the piazza because of her beauty—and afterwards so many misfortunes fell on them that they broke the witch in pieces and buried her in Florentine territory? My son, fly these, forsake them, break them, grind them under your foot, so shall your soul become free and joyous, and circle like a bird round the presence of God. Eschew the heathen, forsake learning—' because of these things comes the wrath of God on the children of men!'"

"And it is all a snare, then," said Andrea. "Florence, so beautiful, so pleasant—all the splendour of Lorenzo dei Medici—"

Fra Girolamo interrupted, and his voice was like the clanging of a bronze-tongued bell.

"Speak not to me of Lorenzo dei Medici—the tyrant to whom I refused absolution on his death-bed; it was he and such as he who brought this city to slavery and corruption; it is his son who makes Florence as a den of thieves and blasphemers."

"Lorenzo was my friend, and I loved him," said the Conte gently.

"I know that thou didst love him," replied Savonarola, using the familiar form of address, "and to thy great hurt, Giovanni."

"He did much for Florence," sighed Delia Mirandola.

The monk rose to his feet, his frame quivering, his face so distorted with wrath and hate as to appear demoniacal.

"Much for Florence? Ay, he embellished San Lorenzo and other churches for his own glory; he amused the people with wanton shows; he built his palaces and his gardens; employed his artists and his poets, and while they glorified him he was lavish with his praise. What else did he do? What else did Lorenzo dei Medici do? What of his lascivious life—what of his blasphemous, wanton songs? What of the sack of Volterra, the robbery of the dowry of the orphaned damsels, the revenge for the Pazzi conspiracy—thou knowest well enough, Conte della Mirandola, that when Lorenzo was on his death-bed these three things troubled even his dark soul. Yet, would he give back her liberty to Florence? Nay, he preferred to die without absolution—a tyrant, unrepentant as he had lived."

The Conte stood silent before this denunciation as if it had been directed at him; Andrea leant against the wall, feeling weak and helpless.

The monk's voice fell and softened; he laid one powerful hand on the young prince's rich sleeve, and his face, lately so fierce, took on an expression almost of tenderness, the brows lifted, and the brown eyes showed soft and affectionate.

"And thou, Giovanni, thou," he said, "why wilt thou not leave the world and follow me in the path of Christ? Thou art not like the others, and I would save thee from their fate; yea, I would pluck thee from the destruction of Florence and place thee safe within the arms of God. Leave off this silk and gold, burn your books and find peace in this poor habit I wear."

Mirandola's large eyes filled with tears.

"Father, I cannot, I have not the strength—the old allure is too strong—father, to-day I might have heard you in the Duomo, but I went to Settignano to see a Greek there who had some gems to sell. I bought this."

He took from his pocket the sardonyx Venus and held it out on his shaking palm.

Savonarola dropped his hand from the young man's shoulder.

"Alas!" he said, "alas!"

"But now I have no pleasure in the toy," continued the Conte. "Do with it as you will."

And he placed the yellow stone on the desk that was covered with the writings of the monk's vision.

"What shall I do with it?" asked Fra Girolamo. "It is too hard to break or burn."

"Would you destroy it?" asked Andrea, quivering; he could hardly bear to see the delicate gem in the coarse fingers of the monk.

"Why not?" demanded Savonarola, instantly angered by the sign of opposition. "What is it but a wanton thing—a vanity?"

"It is beautiful," said Andrea sullenly, his wave of reverence and belief in Fra Girolamo passed; he felt now that he hated him.

"You think it beautiful?" cried the monk, with glowing eyes. "You think the Duomo, with the coloured marbles, the statues, the paintings, the red dome, beautiful?"

"Beautiful it is!" exclaimed Andrea.

"To me it is but a pile of stones to keep out the sun and rain. I tell you that near the Torre San Niccolò, by the mill, there is a dirty brick chapel where the washerwomen come to say their prayers after they have been labouring with their linen in the Arno—that poor place, enriched by faith, is more lovely in God's sight than the Duomo or San Lorenzo."

He held out the sardonyx to the Conte.

"What wilt thou do with this, Giovanni?"

"What you will," replied Mirandola. "As you say, father, it is but a vanity."

Savonarola laid the gem on the desk and raising the heavy black crucifix that hung to the wooden rosary at his belt, dealt a blow of such ferocious strength and accuracy that the sardonyx was shattered like glass.

Andrea winced, and the angry colour stained his cheek.

"Ah, this pains you," said the Prior, sweeping the yellow fragments on to the floor. "But you can look on the bleeding features of Christ unmoved!" and he sternly pointed to the canvas painting by Fra Angelico that he carried in procession.

Andrea's wrath died from him.

"Father, what shall I do?" he asked, in despair.

"If you have your duty in the world, fulfil it as righteously as you may; if you feel a spiritual call, enter the Church. Either way, learn self-abnegation, self-humiliation, self-sacrifice, cherish goodness and avoid knowledge—which is power, and that is of God."

"But, father," said Mirandola, "you aspire to power—you said once that you would cast out the Medici as Christ, cast out the devils in the swine, and rule over all Florence."

The monk seemed to grow as he raised himself to his full height.

"All Italy, if it is willed!" he cried. "But I am a prophet, and my visions are of God. When you have travailed and agonized as I have, you may aspire to power."

Then in a less terrible tone he added:

"For you, Giovanni Pico, there are not many more years of life—I entreat you consider your soul."

"Father, I will," returned the young Conte earnestly. "When I can assume this habit without hypocrisy or unworthiness"—he touched the Prior's black and white robe—"I will come to you very joyously."

Savonarola sighed, and his harsh features took on a melancholy look.

"Now leave me, my sons," he said.

They kissed his hand and departed from his rooms. The lay brother who had admitted them guided them to the convent door.

He told them that the Prior had not eaten since dawn, and then but a morsel of dry bread.

"He wears a hair shirt over a scourged and bleeding back," whispered the Dominican, "yet he is very sensitive to pain."

As they crossed the cloister of the dead a wild and crazy singing broke upon the sacred stillness.

Mirandola paused, startled.

"That is Fra Silvestro," explained the monk, "the brother who has convulsions and sees visions. The Prior loves him and cherishes him because of his prophecies."

They came out into the piazza, where the town lights mingled with the moon glow, and the Carnival songs of the passers-by drowned the mad chanting of the monk.

"Messere," said Andrea, "will you be a monk—and why did you give him the Venus?"

"He is right—he is a man of God—a holy prophet," answered Mirandola, in an agitated voice.

But Andrea, shaken as he was, still revolted.

"I cannot believe it—not that way could I, at least, find peace!"

They mingled with the careless crowd that thronged the Via Larga, and Andrea looked up at the moon. She brought him some comfort in her white remoteness, as did the feel of the eternal winds on his face as the hot night was broken by gusty breezes.