Part 55 (1/2)
”Do you, then, know so well what will further the coming of G.o.d's kingdom, father, that you will dare to despise the plea of mercy--of justice--of faithfulness to your own teaching? Has the French king, then, brought renovation to Italy? Take care, father, lest your enemies have some reason when they say, that in your visions of what will further G.o.d's kingdom you see only what will strengthen your own party.”
”And that is true!” said Savonarola, with flas.h.i.+ng eyes. Romola's voice had seemed to him in that moment the voice of his enemies. ”The cause of my party _is_ the cause of G.o.d's kingdom.”
”I do not believe it!” said Romola, her whole frame shaken with pa.s.sionate repugnance. ”G.o.d's kingdom is something wider--else, let me stand outside it with the beings that I love.”
The two faces were lit up, each with an opposite emotion, each with an opposite cert.i.tude. Further words were impossible. Romola hastily covered her head and went out in silence.
CHAPTER SIXTY.
THE SCAFFOLD.
Three days later the moon that was just surmounting the buildings of the piazza in front of the Old Palace within the hour of midnight, did not make the usual broad lights and shadows on the pavement. Not a hand's-breadth of pavement was to be seen, but only the heads of an eager struggling mult.i.tude. And instead of that background of silence in which the pattering footsteps and buzzing voices, the lute-thrumming or rapid scampering of the many night wanderers of Florence stood out in obtrusive distinctness, there was the background of a roar from mingled shouts and imprecations, tramplings and pus.h.i.+ngs, and accidental clas.h.i.+ng of weapons, across which nothing was distinguishable but a darting shriek, or the heavy dropping toll of a bell.
Almost all who could call themselves the public of Florence were awake at that hour, and either enclosed within the limits of that piazza, or struggling to enter it. Within the palace were still a.s.sembled in the council-chamber all the chief magistracies, the eighty members of the senate, and the other select citizens who had been in hot debate through long hours of daylight and torchlight whether the Appeal should be granted or whether the sentence of death should be executed on the prisoners forthwith, to forestall the dangerous chances of delay. And the debate had been so much like fierce quarrel that the noise from the council-chamber had reached the crowd outside. Only within the last hour had the question been decided: the Signoria had remained divided, four of them standing out resolutely for the Appeal in spite of the strong argument that if they did not give way their houses should be sacked, until Francesco Valori, in brief and furious speech, made the determination of his party more ominously distinct by declaring that if the Signoria would not defend the liberties of the Florentine people by executing those five perfidious citizens, there would not be wanting others who would take that cause in hand to the peril of all who opposed it. The Florentine Cato triumphed. When the votes were counted again, the four obstinate white beans no longer appeared; the whole nine were of the fatal affirmative black, deciding the death of the five prisoners without delay--deciding also, only tacitly and with much more delay, the death of Francesco Valori.
And now, while the judicial Eight were gone to the Bargello to prepare for the execution, the five condemned men were being led barefoot and in irons through the midst of the council. It was their friends who had contrived this: would not Florentines be moved by the visible a.s.sociation of such cruel ignominy with two venerable men like Bernardo del Nero and Niccolo Ridolfi, who had taken their bias long before the new order of things had come to make Mediceanism retrograde--with two brilliant popular young men like Tornabuoni and Pucci, whose absence would be felt as a haunting vacancy wherever there was a meeting of chief Florentines? It was useless: such pity as could be awakened now was of that hopeless sort which leads not to rescue, but to the tardier action of revenge.
While this scene was pa.s.sing upstairs Romola stood below against one of the ma.s.sive pillars in the court of the palace, expecting the moment when her G.o.dfather would appear, on his way to execution. By the use of strong interest she had gained permission to visit him in the evening of this day, and remain with him until the result of the council should be determined. And now she was waiting with his confessor to follow the guard that would lead him to the Bargello. Her heart was bent on clinging to the presence of the childless old man to the last moment, as her father would have done; and she had overpowered all remonstrances.
Giovan Battista Ridolfi, a disciple of Savonarola, who was going in bitterness to behold the death of his elder brother Niccolo, had promised that she should be guarded, and now stood by her side.
t.i.to, too, was in the palace; but Romola had not seen him. Since the evening of the seventeenth they had avoided each other, and t.i.to only knew by inference from the report of the Frate's neutrality that her pleading had failed. He was now surrounded with official and other personages, both Florentine and foreign, who had been awaiting the issue of the long-protracted council, maintaining, except when he was directly addressed, the subdued air and grave silence of a man whom actual events are placing in a painful state of strife between public and private feeling. When an allusion was made to his wife in relation to those events, he implied that, owing to the violent excitement of her mind, the mere fact of his continuing to hold office under a government concerned in her G.o.dfather's condemnation, roused in her a diseased hostility towards him; so that for her sake he felt it best not to approach her.
”Ah, the old Bardi blood!” said Cennini, with a shrug. ”I shall not be surprised if this business shakes _her_ loose from the Frate, as well as some others I could name.”
”It is excusable in a woman, who is doubtless beautiful, since she is the wife of Messer t.i.to,” said a young French envoy, smiling and bowing to t.i.to, ”to think that her affections must overrule the good of the State, and that n.o.body is to be beheaded who is anybody's cousin; but such a view is not to be encouraged in the male population. It seems to me your Florentine polity is much weakened by it.”
”That is true,” said Niccolo Macchiavelli; ”but where personal ties are strong, the hostilities they raise must be taken due account of. Many of these half-way severities are mere hot-headed blundering. The only safe blows to be inflicted on men and parties are the blows that are too heavy to be avenged.”
”Niccolo,” said Cennini, ”there is a clever wickedness in thy talk sometimes that makes me mistrust thy pleasant young face as if it were a mask of Satan.”
”Not at all, my good Domenico,” said Macchiavelli, smiling, and laying his hand on the elder's shoulder. ”Satan was a blunderer, an introducer of _novita_, who made a stupendous failure. If he had succeeded, we should all have been wors.h.i.+pping him, and his portrait would have been more flattered.”
”Well, well,” said Cennini, ”I say not thy doctrine is not too clever for Satan: I only say it is wicked enough for him.”
”I tell you,” said Macchiavelli, ”my doctrine is the doctrine of all men who seek an end a little farther off than their own noses. Ask our Frate, our prophet, how his universal renovation is to be brought about: he will tell you, first, by getting a free and pure government; and since it appears that this cannot be done by making all Florentines love each other, it must be done by cutting off every head that happens to be obstinately in the way. Only if a man incurs odium by sanctioning a severity that is not thorough enough to be final, he commits a blunder.
And something like that blunder, I suspect, the Frate has committed. It was an occasion on which he might have won some l.u.s.tre by exerting himself to maintain the Appeal; instead of that, he has lost l.u.s.tre, and has gained no strength.”
Before any one else could speak, there came the expected announcement that the prisoners were about to leave the council-chamber; and the majority of those who were present hurried towards the door, intent on securing the freest pa.s.sage to the Bargello in the rear of the prisoners' guard; for the scene of the execution was one that drew alike those who were moved by the deepest pa.s.sions and those who were moved by the coldest curiosity.
t.i.to was one of those who remained behind. He had a native repugnance to sights of death and pain, and five days ago whenever he had thought of this execution as a possibility he had hoped that it would not take place, and that the utmost sentence would be exile: his own safety demanded no more. But now he felt that it would be a welcome guarantee of his security when he had learned that Bernardo del Nero's head was off the shoulders. The new knowledge and new att.i.tude towards him disclosed by Romola on the day of his return, had given him a new dread of the power she possessed to make his position insecure. If any act of hers only succeeded in making him an object of suspicion and odium, he foresaw not only frustration, but frustration under unpleasant circ.u.mstances. Her belief in Balda.s.sarre had clearly determined her wavering feelings against further submission, and if her G.o.dfather lived she would win him to share her belief without much trouble. Romola seemed more than ever an unmanageable fact in his destiny. But if Bernardo del Nero were dead, the difficulties that would beset her in placing herself in opposition to her husband would probably be insurmountable to her shrinking pride. Therefore t.i.to had felt easier when he knew that the Eight had gone to the Bargello to order the instant erection of the scaffold. Four other men--his intimates and confederates--were to die, besides Bernardo del Nero. But a man's own safety is a G.o.d that sometimes makes very grim demands. t.i.to felt them to be grim: even in the pursuit of what was agreeable, this paradoxical life forced upon him the desire for what was disagreeable. But he had had other experience of this sort, and as he heard through the open doorway the shuffle of many feet and the clanking of metal on the stairs, he was able to answer the questions of the young French envoy without showing signs of any other feeling than that of sad resignation to State necessities.
Those sounds fell on Romola as if her power of hearing had been exalted along with every other sensibility of her nature. She needed no arm to support her; she shed no tears. She felt that intensity of life which seems to transcend both grief and joy--in which the mind seems to itself akin to elder forces that wrought out existence before the birth of pleasure and pain. Since her G.o.dfather's fate had been decided, the previous struggle of feeling in her had given way to an identification of herself with him in these supreme moments: she was inwardly a.s.serting for him that, if he suffered the punishment of treason, he did not deserve the name of traitor; he was the victim to a collision between two kinds of faithfulness. It was not given him to die for the n.o.blest cause, and yet he died because of his n.o.bleness. He might have been a meaner man and found it easier not to incur this guilt. Romola was feeling the full force of that sympathy with the individual lot that is continually opposing itself to the formulae by which actions and parties are judged. She was treading the way with her second father to the scaffold, and nerving herself to defy ignominy by the consciousness that it was not deserved.
The way was fenced in by three hundred armed men, who had been placed as a guard by the orders of Francesco Valori, for among the apparent contradictions that belonged to this event, not the least striking was the alleged alarm on the one hand at the popular rage against the conspirators, and the alleged alarm on the other lest there should be an attempt to rescue them in the midst of a hostile crowd. When they had arrived within the court of the Bargello, Romola was allowed to approach Bernardo with his confessor for a moment of farewell. Many eyes were bent on them even in that struggle of an agitated throng, as the aged man, forgetting that his hands were bound with irons, lifted them towards the golden head that was bent towards him, and then, checking that movement, leaned to kiss her. She seized the fettered hands that were hung down again, and kissed them as if they had been sacred things.
”My poor Romola,” said Bernardo, in a low voice, ”I have only to die, but thou hast to live--and I shall not be there to help thee.”
”Yes,” said Romola, hurriedly, ”you _will_ help me--always--because I shall remember you.”