University of Virginia Library

SCENE I.

A Street in Florence.
[At the right of the stage, a small open Loggia, raised above the level of the stage by three steps, and up which clamber Banksia roses in full bloom. Inside the Loggia are seated Corsini, Bonsi, and Vespucci. On the left of the stage, facing them, are the northern parts of the city, Fiesole, Careggi, Monte Morello, and the spurs of the Apennines.]
CORSINI.
How passing fair the city looks to-day.

BONSI.
Yes, and how fresh her territory, robed
In the abundant greenery of May!
Quick-scaling roses have surprised the walls,
And the Valdarno laughs beneath the spears
Of serried growth in peaceful phalanx ranged.
Methinks I scent the clover even here.

VESPUCCI.
Likely enough; and note you how afar,
Melted by winsomeness of childlike Spring,
The manly mountains wear a feminine smile.
Scarcely a day for such a sight as that
Hourly preparing.

CORSINI.
Are all three to die?
'Twas said the Bishop of Ilerda strove
To rescue Frà Domenico.

BONSI.
If he did,
'Twas feebly argued. Answered, he not dead,
Savonarola's doctrine would survive,
Curtly the Pope's Commissioner replied,
“One friar more or less—what matters it?
Then burn him too.”

VESPUCCI.
He seems the stubborn sort.
Torture, they say, but tightened constancy;
And when they vouched him Frà Girolamo
Himself himself forswore, he sat him down,
And wrote unto the brethren of Saint Mark,
Enjoining them to bind up all the works
Of Frà Girolamo, nor fail to keep
One copy in the library, and one
In the refectory, securing them
Unto the lectern by a little chain.

CORSINI.
Think you that Savonarola did confess
His prophecies imposture?

BONSI.
Possibly.
The visionary's valour, that is fledged
In watches of uncontradicting night
Or sympathising solitude, and wings
Limitless flight through unresisting space,
Confronted by the sharp and alien air
Of earthly circumstance,—well, droops and flags.

VESPUCCI.
Doubtless, you probe it there. Vigil and fast,
Obeisant brethren, and the duping shout
Of crowds that foster frenzy, rarefied
His mind to vapour; which was back condensed
By the chill silence of a prison cell,
The face of cold inquisitors, the tramp
Of deaf, dumb gaolers, all the accidents
That render doubt substantial.

CORSINI.
Nor forget
The grimly real rack with grinning teeth,
The sceptic cords, the idealising brain
Helpless to serve the body in that pinch,
And Heaven not intervening!

BONSI.
Yet they say,
When last upon the rack stretched out afresh,
That he recanted every utterance
Discrediting his prophecies, and prayed
God would condone the frailty of the flesh
Which had denied Him, and that now he stands
Fast by that gospel. Here comes one that was
The worldly arm of the Frateschi till
Themselves had learned more worldliness.

[Enter Salviati (right), with his eyes upon the ground.]
VESPUCCI.
How now,
Good Salviati?

SALVIATI.
I am good no more,
Save to be exiled, if that suits my foes:
An officer whose privates have dispersed,
A flag without a following.

CORSINI.
How is that?

SALVIATI.
Why, even I, dull though I am, could see
On what a narrow and ambiguous edge
Florence was treading. I am a soldier, sirs:
Enjoy no visions, ask no miracles,
Under my breastplate no raw hair-shirt hide,
But served the State, while still Valori lived,
With some fidelity. But those daft loons
I pressed into my service had conceived
Praying would starve out Pisa, hymns persuade
The plague to pass elsewhere, and wealth increase
By burning of their luxuries. When they found
Cause was not crowned with consequence,—well, they
The Cause abandoned.

BONSI.
Have they all forsworn
The prophesying Prior?

SALVIATI.
Nearly all:
All saving credulous women. They stand firm,
Believing more, the more a thing's disproved.
Withal, Heaven bless them! They are like the dew
That comes with morning and returns with night,
And having cheered some luminary's dawn,
Shrink back into themselves when he rides high,
That they may soothe his setting. With your leave,
I will continue homewards, for I am
A trifle sad.
[Exit Salviati (right).]

VESPUCCI.
That's a straightforward man,
Entangled in the ravel of these times.
But he will cut it, for he has a sword.
These men of action tread the easiest road.
'Tis only thought's inextricable mesh
Makes life confusion.

BONSI.
Cease we then to think!
How softly doth the landscape kiss the eyes!
Let us awhile look on it quietly.

VESPUCCI.
There will not be much quietness to-day.
Look! Here they come.