CHAPTER SIXTY FIVE.
THE TRIAL BY FIRE.
Little more than a week after, on the seventh of April, the great Piazzadella Signoria presented a stranger spectacle even than the famousBonfire of Vanities. And a greater multitude had assembled to see itthan had ever before tried to find place for themselves in the widePiazza, even on the day of San Giovanni.
It was near mid-day, and since the early morning there had been agradual swarming of the people at every coign of vantage or disadvantageoffered by the facades and roofs of the houses, and such spaces of thepavement as were free to the public. Men were seated on iron rods thatmade a sharp angle with the rising wall, were clutching slim pillarswith arms and legs, were astride on the necks of the rough statuary thathere and there surmounted the entrances of the grander houses, werefinding a palm's-breadth of seat on a bit of architrave, and a footingon the rough projections of the rustic stonework, while they clutchedthe strong iron rings or staples driven into the walls beside them.
For they were come to see a Miracle: cramped limbs and abraded fleshseemed slight inconveniences with that prospect close at hand. It isthe ordinary lot of mankind to hear of miracles, and more or less tobelieve in them; but now the Florentines were going to see one. At thevery least they would see half a miracle; for if the monk did not comewhole out of the fire, they would see him enter it, and infer that hewas burned in the middle.
There could be no reasonable doubt, it seemed, that the fire would bekindled, and that the monks would enter it. For there, before theireyes, was the long platform, eight feet broad, and twenty yards long,with a grove of fuel heaped up terribly, great branches of dry oak as afoundation, crackling thorns above, and well-anointed tow and rags,known to make fine flames in Florentine illuminations. The platformbegan at the corner of the marble terrace in front of the Old Palace,close to Marzocco, the stone lion, whose aged visage looked frowninglyalong the grove of fuel that stretched obliquely across the Piazza.
Besides that, there were three large bodies of armed men: five hundredhired soldiers of the Signoria stationed before the palace; five hundredCompagnacci under Dolfo Spini, far-off on the opposite side of thePiazza; and three hundred armed citizens of another sort, under MarcoSalviati, Savonarola's friend, in front of Orgagna's Loggia, where theFranciscans and Dominicans were to be placed with their champions.
Here had been much expense of money and labour, and high dignities wereconcerned. There could be no reasonable doubt that something great wasabout to happen; and it would certainly be a great thing if the twomonks were simply burned, for in that case too God would have spoken,and said very plainly that Fra Girolamo was not His prophet.
And there was not much longer to wait, for it was now near mid-day.Half the monks were already at their post, and that half of the Loggiathat lies towards the Palace was already filled with grey mantles; butthe other half, divided off by boards, was still empty of everythingexcept a small altar. The Franciscans had entered and taken theirplaces in silence. But now, at the other side of the Piazza was heardloud chanting from two hundred voices, and there was generalsatisfaction, if not in the chanting, at least in the evidence that theDominicans were come. That loud chanting repetition of the prayer, "LetGod arise, and let His enemies be scattered," was unpleasantlysuggestive to some impartial ears of a desire to vaunt confidence andexcite dismay; and so was the flame-coloured velvet cope in which FraDomenico was arrayed as he headed the procession, cross in hand, hissimple mind really exalted with faith, and with the genuine intention toenter the flames for the glory of God and Fra Girolamo. Behind him cameSavonarola in the white vestment of a priest, carrying in his hands avessel containing the consecrated Host. He, too, was chanting loudly;he, too, looked firm and confident, and as all eyes were turned eagerlyon him, either in anxiety, curiosity, or malignity, from the moment whenhe entered the Piazza till he mounted the steps of the Loggia anddeposited the Sacrament on the altar, there was an intensifying flashand energy in his countenance responding to that scrutiny.
We are so made, almost all of us, that the false seeming which we havethought of with painful shrinking when beforehand in our solitude it hasurged itself on us as a necessity, will possess our muscles and move ourlips as if nothing but that were easy when once we have come under thestimulus of expectant eyes and ears. And the strength of that stimulusto Savonarola can hardly be measured by the experience of ordinarylives. Perhaps no man has ever had a mighty influence over his fellowswithout having the innate need to dominate, and this need usuallybecomes the more imperious in proportion as the complications of lifemake Self inseparable from a purpose which is not selfish. In this wayit came to pass that on the day of the Trial by Fire, the doublenesswhich is the pressing temptation in every public career, whether ofpriest, orator, or statesman, was more strongly defined in Savonarola'sconsciousness as the acting of a part, than at any other period in hislife. He was struggling not against impending martyrdom, but againstimpending ruin.
Therefore he looked and acted as if he were thoroughly confident, whenall the while foreboding was pressing with leaden weight on his heart,not only because of the probable issues of this trial, but because ofanother event already past--an event which was spreading a sunnysatisfaction through the mind of a man who was looking down at thepassion-worn prophet from a window of the Old Palace. It was a commonturning-point towards which those widely-sundered lives had beenconverging, that two evenings ago the news had come that the Florentinecourier of the Ten had been arrested and robbed of all his despatches,so that Savonarola's letter was already in the hands of the Duke ofMilan, and would soon be in the hands of the Pope, not only heighteningrage, but giving a new justification to extreme measures. There was nomalignity in Tito Melema's satisfaction: it was the mildself-gratulation of a man who has won a game that has employedhypothetic skill, not a game that has stirred the muscles and heated theblood. Of course that bundle of desires and contrivances called humannature, when moulded into the form of a plain-featured FratePredicatore, more or less of an impostor, could not be a pathetic objectto a brilliant-minded scholar who understood everything. Yet thistonsured Girolamo with the high nose and large under lip was animmensely clever Frate, mixing with his absurd superstitions orfabrications very remarkable notions about government: no babbler, but aman who could keep his secrets. Tito had no more spite against him thanagainst Saint Dominic. On the contrary, Fra Girolamo's existence hadbeen highly convenient to Tito Melema, furnishing him with that round ofthe ladder from which he was about to leap on to a new and smoothfooting very much to his heart's content. And everything now was inforward preparation for that leap: let one more sun rise and set, andTito hoped to quit Florence. He had been so industrious that he felt atfull leisure to amuse himself with to-day's comedy, which thethick-headed Dolfo Spini could never have brought about but for him.
Not yet did the loud chanting cease, but rather swelled to a deafeningroar, being taken up in all parts of the Piazza by the Piagnoni, whocarried their little red crosses as a badge, and, most of them, chantedthe prayer for the confusion of God's enemies with the expectation of ananswer to be given through the medium of a more signal personage thanFra Domenico. This good Frate in his flame-coloured cope was nowkneeling before the little altar on which the Sacrament was deposited,awaiting his summons.
On the Franciscan side of the Loggia there was no chanting and noflame-colour: only silence and greyness. But there was thiscounterbalancing difference, that the Franciscans had two champions: acertain Fra Giuliano was to pair with Fra Domenico, while the originalchampion, Fra Francesco, confined his challenge to Savonarola.
"Surely," thought the men perched uneasily on the rods and pillars, "allmust be ready now. This chanting might stop, and we should see betterwhen the Frati are moving towards the platform."
But the Frati were not to be seen moving yet. Pale Franciscan faceswere looking uneasily over the boarding at that flame-coloured cope. Ithad an evil look and might be ench
anted, so that a false miracle wouldbe wrought by magic. Your monk may come whole out of the fire, and yetit may be the work of the devil.
And now there was passing to and fro between the Loggia and the marbleterrace of the Palazzo, and the roar of chanting became a littlequieter, for every one at a distance was beginning to watch moreeagerly. But it soon appeared that the new movement was not abeginning, but an obstacle to beginning. The dignified Florentinesappointed to preside over this affair as moderators on each side, wentin and out of the Palace, and there was much debate with theFranciscans. But at last it was clear that Fra Domenico, conspicuous inhis flame-colour, was being fetched towards the Palace. Probably thefire had already been kindled--it was difficult to see at a distance--and the miracle was going to begin.
Not at all. The flame-coloured cope disappeared within the Palace; thenanother Dominican was fetched away; and for a long while everything wenton as before--the tiresome chanting, which was not miraculous, and FraGirolamo in his white vestment standing just in the same place. But atlast something happened: Fra Domenico was seen coming out of the Palaceagain, and returning to his brethren. He had changed all his clotheswith a brother monk, but he was guarded on each flank by a Franciscan,lest coming into the vicinity of Savonarola he should be enchantedagain.
"Ah, then," thought the distant spectators, a little less conscious ofcramped limbs and hunger, "Fra Domenico is not going to enter the fire.It is Fra Girolamo who offers himself after all. We shall see him movepresently, and if he comes out of the flames we shall have a fine viewof him!"
But Fra Girolamo did not move, except with the ordinary actionaccompanying speech. The speech was bold and firm, perhaps somewhatironically remonstrant, like that of Elijah to the priests of Baal,demanding the cessation of these trivial delays. But speech is the mostirritating kind of argument for those who are out of hearing, cramped inthe limbs, and empty in the stomach. And what need was there forspeech? If the miracle did not begin, it could be no one's fault butFra Girolamo's, who might put an end to all difficulties by offeringhimself now the fire was ready, as he had been forward enough to do whenthere was no fuel in sight.
More movement to and fro, more discussion; and the afternoon seemed tobe slipping away all the faster because the clouds had gathered, andchanged the light on everything, and sent a chill through thespectators, hungry in mind and body.
_Now_ it was the crucifix which Fra Domenico wanted to carry into thefire and must not be allowed to profane in that manner. After somelittle resistance Savonarola gave way to this objection, and thus hadthe advantage of making one more concession; but he immediately placedin Fra Domenico's hands the vessel containing the consecrated Host. Theidea that the presence of the sacred Mystery might in the worstextremity avert the ordinary effects of fire hovered in his mind as apossibility; but the issue on which he counted was of a more positivekind. In taking up the Host he said quietly, as if he were only doingwhat had been presupposed from the first--
"Since they are not willing that you should enter with the crucifix, mybrother, enter simply with the Sacrament."
New horror in the Franciscans; new firmness in Savonarola. "It wasimpious presumption to carry the Sacrament into the fire: if it wereburned the scandal would be great in the minds of the weak andignorant."
"Not at all: even if it were burned, the Accidents only would beconsumed, the Substance would remain." Here was a question that mightbe argued till set of sun and remain as elastic as ever; and no onecould propose settling it by proceeding to the trial, since it wasessentially a preliminary question. It was only necessary that bothsides should remain firm--that the Franciscans should persist in notpermitting the Host to be carried into the fire, and that Fra Domenicoshould persist in refusing to enter without it.
Meanwhile the clouds were getting darker, the air chiller. Even thechanting was missed now it had given way to inaudible argument; and theconfused sounds of talk from all points of the Piazza, showing thatexpectation was everywhere relaxing, contributed to the irritatingpresentiment that nothing decisive would be done. Here and there adropping shout was heard; then, more frequent shouts in a rising scaleof scorn.
"Light the fire and drive them in!"
"Let us have a smell of roast--we want our dinner!"
"Come Prophet, let us know whether anything is to happen before thetwenty-four hours are over!"
"Yes, yes, what's your last vision?"
"Oh, he's got a dozen in his inside; they're the small change for amiracle!"
"Ola, Frate, where are you? Never mind wasting the fuel!"
Still the same movement to and fro between the Loggia and the Palace;still the same debate, slow and unintelligible to the multitude as thecolloquies of insects that touch antennas to no other apparent effectthan that of going and coming. But an interpretation was not longwanting to unheard debates in which Fra Girolamo was constantly aspeaker: it was he who was hindering the trial; everybody was appealingto him now, and he was hanging back.
Soon the shouts ceased to be distinguishable, and were lost in an uproarnot simply of voices, but of clashing metal and trampling feet. Thesuggestions of the irritated people had stimulated old impulses in DolfoSpini and his band of Compagnacci; it seemed an opportunity not to belost for putting an end to Florentine difficulties by getting possessionof the arch-hypocrite's person; and there was a vigorous rush of thearmed men towards the Loggia, thrusting the people aside, or drivingthem on to the file of soldiery stationed in front of the Palace. Atthis movement, everything was suspended both with monks and embarrassedmagistrates except the palpitating watch to see what would come of thestruggle.
But the Loggia was well guarded by the band under the brave Salviati;the soldiers of the Signoria assisted in the repulse; and the tramplingand rushing were all backward again towards the Tetto de' Pisani, whenthe blackness of the heavens seemed to intensify in this moment of utterconfusion; and the rain, which had already been felt in scattered drops,began to fall with rapidly growing violence, wetting the fuel, andrunning in streams off the platform, wetting the weary hungry people tothe skin, and driving every man's disgust and rage inwards to fermentthere in the damp darkness.
Everybody knew now that the Trial by Fire was not to happen. TheSignoria was doubtless glad of the rain, as an obvious reason, betterthan any pretext, for declaring that both parties might go home. It wasthe issue which Savonarola had expected and desired; yet it would be anill description of what he felt to say that he was glad. As that rainfell, and plashed on the edge of the Loggia, and sent spray over thealtar and all garments and faces, the Frate knew that the demand for himto enter the fire was at an end. But he knew too, with a certainty asirresistible as the damp chill that had taken possession of his frame,that the design of his enemies was fulfilled, and that his honour wasnot saved. He knew that he should have to make his way to San Marcoagain through the enraged crowd, and that the hearts of many friends whowould once have defended him with their lives would now be turnedagainst him.
When the rain had ceased he asked for a guard from the Signoria, and itwas given him. Had he said that he was willing to die for the work ofhis life? Yes, and he had not spoken falsely. But to die indishonour--held up to scorn as a hypocrite and a false prophet? "O God!_that_ is not martyrdom! It is the blotting out of a life that has beena protest against wrong. Let me die because of the worth that is in me,not because of my weakness."
The rain had ceased, and the light from the breaking clouds fell onSavonarola as he left the Loggia in the midst of his guard, walking ashe had come, with the Sacrament in his hand. But there seemed no gloryin the light that fell on him now, no smile of heaven: it was only thatlight which shines on, patiently and impartially, justifying orcondemning by simply showing all things in the slow history of theirripening. He heard no blessing, no tones of pity, but only taunts andthreats. He knew this was a foretaste of coming bitterness; yet hiscourage mounted under all moral attack, and he showed no sign of di
smay.
"Well parried, Frate!" said Tito, as Savonarola descended the steps ofthe Loggia. "But I fear your career at Florence is ended. What sayyou, my Niccolo?"
"It is a pity his falsehoods were not all of a wise sort," saidMacchiavelli, with a melancholy shrug. "With the times so much on hisside as they are about Church affairs, he might have done somethinggreat."