Romola

  CHAPTER SIXTY TWO.

  THE BENEDICTION.

  About ten o'clock on the morning of the twenty-seventh of February thecurrents of passengers along the Florentine streets set decidedlytowards San Marco. It was the last morning of the Carnival, and everyone knew there was a second Bonfire of Vanities being prepared in frontof the Old Palace; but at this hour it was evident that the centre ofpopular interest lay elsewhere.

  The Piazza di San Marco was filled by a multitude who showed no othermovement than that which proceeded from the pressure of new-comerstrying to force their way forward from all the openings: but the frontranks were already close-serried and resisted the pressure. Those rankswere ranged around a semicircular barrier in front of the church, andwithin this barrier were already assembling the Dominican Brethren ofSan Marco.

  But the temporary wooden pulpit erected over the church-door was stillempty. It was presently to be entered by the man whom the Pope'scommand had banished from the pulpit of the Duomo, whom the otherecclesiastics of Florence had been forbidden to consort with, whom thecitizens had been forbidden to hear on pain of excommunication. Thisman had said, "A wicked, unbelieving Pope who has gained the pontificalchair by bribery is not Christ's Vicar. His curses are broken swords:he grasps a hilt without a blade. His commands are contrary to theChristian life: it is lawful to disobey them--nay, _it is not lawful toobey them_." And the people still flocked to hear him as he preached inhis own church of San Marco, though the Pope was hanging terriblethreats over Florence if it did not renounce the pestilential schismaticand send him to Rome to be "converted"--still, as on this very morning,accepted the Communion from his excommunicated hands. For how if thisFrate had really more command over the Divine lightnings than thatofficial successor of Saint Peter? It was a momentous question, whichfor the mass of citizens could never be decided by the Frate's ultimatetest, namely, what was and what was not accordant with the highestspiritual law. No: in such a case as this, if God had chosen the Frateas his prophet to rebuke the High Priest who carried the mystic raimentunworthily, he would attest his choice by some unmistakable sign. Aslong as the belief in the Prophet carried no threat of outward calamity,but rather the confident hope of exceptional safety, no sign was needed:his preaching was a music to which the people felt themselves marchingalong the way they wished to go; but now that belief meant an immediateblow to their commerce, the shaking of their position among the ItalianStates, and an interdict on their city, there inevitably came thequestion, "What miracle showest thou?" Slowly at first, then faster andfaster, that fatal demand had been swelling in Savonarola's ear,provoking a response, outwardly in the declaration that at the fittingtime the miracle would come; inwardly in the faith--not unwavering, forwhat faith is so?--that if the need for miracle became urgent, the workhe had before him was too great for the Divine power to leave ithalting. His faith wavered, but not his speech: it is the lot of everyman who has to speak for the satisfaction of the crowd, that he mustoften speak in virtue of yesterday's faith, hoping it will come backto-morrow.

  It was in preparation for a scene which was really a response to thepopular impatience for some supernatural guarantee of the Prophet'smission, that the wooden pulpit had been erected above the church-door.But while the ordinary Frati in black mantles were entering andarranging themselves, the faces of the multitude were not yet eagerlydirected towards the pulpit: it was felt that Savonarola would notappear just yet, and there was some interest in singling out the variousmonks, some of them belonging to high Florentine families, many of themhaving fathers, brothers, or cousins among the artisans and shopkeeperswho made the majority of the crowd. It was not till the tale of monkswas complete, not till they had fluttered their books and had begun tochant, that people said to each other, "Fra Girolamo must be comingnow."

  That expectation rather than any spell from the accustomed wail ofpsalmody was what made silence and expectation seem to spread like apaling solemn light over the multitude of upturned faces, all nowdirected towards the empty pulpit.

  The next instant the pulpit was no longer empty. A figure covered fromhead to foot in black cowl and mantle had entered it, and was kneelingwith bent head and with face turned away. It seemed a weary time to theeager people while the black figure knelt and the monks chanted. Butthe stillness was not broken, for the Frate's audiences with Heaven wereyet charged with electric awe for that mixed multitude, so that thosewho had already the will to stone him felt their arms unnerved.

  At last there was a vibration among the multitude, each seeming to givehis neighbour a momentary aspen-like touch, as when men who have beenwatching for something in the heavens see the expected presence silentlydisclosing itself. The Frate had risen, turned towards the people, andpartly pushed back his cowl. The monotonous wail of psalmody hadceased, and to those who stood near the pulpit, it was as if the soundswhich had just been filling their ears had suddenly merged themselves inthe force of Savonarola's flashing glance, as he looked round him in thesilence. Then he stretched out his hands, which, in their exquisitedelicacy, seemed transfigured from an animal organ for grasping intovehicles of sensibility too acute to need any gross contact: hands thatcame like an appealing speech from that part of his soul which wasmasked by his strong passionate face, written on now with deeper linesabout the mouth and brow than are made by forty-four years of ordinarylife.

  At the first stretching out of the hands some of the crowd in the frontranks fell on their knees, and here and there a devout disciple fartheroff; but the great majority stood firm, some resisting the impulse tokneel before this excommunicated man (might not a great judgment fallupon him even in this act of blessing?)--others jarred with scorn andhatred of the ambitious deceiver who was getting up this new comedy,before which, nevertheless, they felt themselves impotent, as before thetriumph of a fashion.

  But then came the voice, clear and low at first, uttering the words ofabsolution--"_Misereatur vestri_"--and more fell on their knees: and asit rose higher and yet clearer, the erect heads became fewer and fewer,till, at the words "_Benedicat vos omnipotens Deus_" it rose to amasculine cry, as if protesting its power to bless under the clutch of ademon that wanted to stifle it: it rang like a trumpet to theextremities of the Piazza, and under it every head was bowed.

  After the utterance of that blessing, Savonarola himself fell on hisknees and hid his face in temporary exhaustion. Those great jets ofemotion were a necessary part of his life; he himself had said to thepeople long ago, "Without preaching I cannot live." But it was a lifethat shattered him.

  In a few minutes more, some had risen to their feet, but a larger numberremained kneeling, and all faces were intently watching him. He hadtaken into his hands a crystal vessel, containing the consecrated Host,and was about to address the people.

  "You remember, my children, three days ago I besought you, when I shouldhold this Sacrament in my hand in the face of you all, to pray ferventlyto the Most High that if this work of mine does not come from Him, Hewill send a fire and consume me, that I may vanish into the eternaldarkness away from His light which I have hidden with my falsity. AgainI beseech you to make that prayer, and to make it _now_."

  It was a breathless moment: perhaps no man really prayed, if some in aspirit of devout obedience made the effort to pray. Every consciousnesswas chiefly possessed by the sense that Savonarola was praying, in avoice not loud, but distinctly audible in the wide stillness.

  "Lord, if I have not wrought in sincerity of soul, if my word cometh notfrom Thee, strike me in this moment with Thy thunder, and let the firesof Thy wrath enclose me."

  He ceased to speak, and stood motionless, with the consecrated Mysteryin his hand, with eyes uplifted, and a quivering excitement in his wholeaspect. Every one else was motionless and silent too, while thesunlight, which for the last quarter of an hour had here and there beenpiercing the greyness, made fitful streaks across the convent wall,causing some awe-stricken spectators to start timidly. But soon therewas a wid
er parting, and with a gentle quickness, like a smile, a streamof brightness poured itself on the crystal vase, and then spread itselfover Savonarola's face with mild glorification.

  An instantaneous shout rang through the Piazza, "Behold the answer!"

  The warm radiance thrilled through Savonarola's frame, and so did theshout. It was his last moment of untroubled triumph, and in itsrapturous confidence he felt carried to a grander scene yet to come,before an audience that would represent all Christendom, in whosepresence he should again be sealed as the messenger of the supremerighteousness, and feel himself full charged with Divine strength. Itwas but a moment that expanded itself in that prevision. While theshout was still ringing in his ears he turned away within the church,feeling the strain too great for him to tear it longer.

  But when the Frate had disappeared, and the sunlight seemed no longer tohave anything special in its illumination, but was spreading itselfimpartially over all things clean and unclean, there began, along withthe general movement of the crowd, a confusion of voices in whichcertain strong discords and varying scales of laughter made it evidentthat, in the previous silence and universal kneeling, hostility andscorn had only submitted unwillingly to a momentary spell.

  "It seems to me the plaudits are giving way to criticism," said Tito,who had been watching the scene attentively from an upper loggia in oneof the houses opposite the church. "Nevertheless it was a strikingmoment, eh, Messer Pietro? Fra Girolamo is a man to make one understandthat there was a time when the monk's frock was a symbol of power overmen's minds rather than over the keys of women's cupboards."

  "Assuredly," said Pietro Cennini. "And until I have seen proof that FraGirolamo has much less faith in God's judgments than the common run ofmen, instead of having considerably more, I shall not believe that hewould brave Heaven in this way if his soul were laden with a consciouslie."