University of Virginia Library

ACT IV.

SCENE I.

Piazza of the Duomo. On the Side Towards The Baptistery.
[The Bell of the Campanile of Giotto tolls at intervals. A bier is carried slowly across the stage (from right to left), on the shoulders of four members of the Misericordia, clad in the long black cloak and hood of the Order, only their eyes being visible. A few persons of the poorer class are sitting on the steps of the Duomo, or leaning against the Baptistery; the women knitting, and some children playing near them. Doffo Spini and young Soderini enter (left) as the bier moves on. They make way for it, come nearer the footlights, and watch it till it passes.]
SODERINI.
A wintry emblem for an April day.

SPINI.
The season keeps its promise, sun and shower.

SODERINI.
Here showers, mostly. Would that I were back
In the Valdarno, left but yesterday;
For there the spring, in brand-new buskin green,
And fledged with shafts in glittering sunshine dipped,
Was hunting wolfish winter from the plain.
Plague on the city, with its doleful dong,
And following funerals!

[A nightingale sings.]
SPINI.
Hark! Heard you that?
It was the nightingale, that all day long
Now in the gardens of the city sings.
Death troubles not his note.

SODERINI.
I have been told
By homely folk he sings unto his mate
As she keeps close on her mysterious nest.
I ween he fluteth only to himself,
Because his throat is full. Poets were wise
To copy his example, and to sing
Despite of darkness, and though all ears sleep.

SPINI.
How wise you wax, if wise is to be sad.

SODERINI.
Wisdom and sadness are as near, blithe youth,
As sun and shade. Would it were otherwise!
Experience, feeding upon all life's sweets,
[Bell tolls.]
Itself turns sour. But see! they come again!

[Another litter, but empty, borne by the Misericordia. passes across the stage (from right to left), followed by Bartolommeo Cei, who remains with Spini and Soderini.]
SPINI.
Whom with their sable paces fetch they now?

CEI.
The lustiest lad that ever wound an arm
Round the shy dimples of a lissom waist:
A faun to dance, a dryad at delight,
Whereof he drained and drained, and found no dregs.
Pallone knew no brawnier wrist than his;
And skimming like a swallow through the chase,
Nor needing e'er to perch, he looked to live
Upon the bounty of the air, and bring
The summer with him.

SODERINI.
Is he dead?

CEI.
Alack!
His flight is over, his expansion done,
His goodly sinews, florid lineaments,
Outlooking youth with fair hopes ringleted,
Packed in a coffin! O thou wanton thief,
That stealest all things, and that art withal
No richer for thy thefts, why canst not leave
Beauty that makes thee no more beautiful,
And spare that love which, when thou hast purloined,
We only hate thee more!

SPINI.
Come, come! Cheer up!
You are as moral as that passing-bell,
And as monotonous. Change but the peal,
The self-same clapper, differently swung,
Will put us all in heart. 'Tis true, the Plague
Hath thinned the ranks of goodly fellowship;
But many a churl hath likewise closed his chops;
And since all suffer, all are ill-content,
And probe the origin!

CEI.
'Tis easy named.
'Tis Frà Girolamo, whose gnawing tongue
Hath eaten deep into the Commonwealth.

SPINI.
Keep grinding on that point, and screw it home.
Mark, Soderini! it already bites.
While you, in broken covert, pike on hip,
Were lithely jousting at the wild boar's tusk,
The hunter's work in Florence was not stayed.
At length we count a friendly Signory,
Whereof the Gonfaloniere is
Pietro Pepoleschi. With him works
Giovanni Berlinghieri; and the Eight
Go mostly 'gainst the Friar.

SODERINI.
Hopeful news,
As April is until November comes;
But this complexion in two months may change.

SPINI.
Ere those months be as though they never were,
This melancholy monk shall fly our walls,
And Florence have her joyance back again.
O, 'tis a trap well baited. Set a thief
The adage says, if you a thief would snare;
And I say, set a monk to catch a monk.

CEI.
But catch your first monk first.

SPINI.
And that we have.
A lean Franciscan, in the Lent just gone,
Preaching in Santa Croce, and egged on
By Frà Mariano, publicly announced
His readiness to traverse flaming share
With Frà Girolamo, and thus decide
Who of the twain teach doctrine orthodox.

SODERINI.
The fool would soon be proved a heretic,
And burnt before his time.

SPINI.
Not quite so fast.
A fool in folly easy is outdone.
The children's plaything, Frà Domenico,
Savanarola's shadow, quickly snatched
The challenge from the rash Franciscan's mouth,
Who forthwith mumbled that his quarrel lay
Not with the follower, but the Master's self.
He, chiding Frà Domenico, had fain
The test eluded; but the Signory
Stuck his Conclusions on the city walls,
Inviting all to uphold or contravene
By Ordeal of Fire. Forthwith each cowl
That bobs within San Marco notified
Its wish to have a singeing. O! 'tis rare,
This glueing of these rooks with their own lime.

SODERINI.
Will the Franciscans stick?

SPINI.
Our only fear.
But Frà Mariano, primed by Rome, as yet
Keeps their faint faces forward, whispering them
They need not fear the Ordeal, which is framed
But as a pit for Frà Girolamo,
Who, entering once the flames, will straight be burnt,
Or, entering not, will live discredited.
Beside, the very Piagnoni cry
The loudest for a miracle, while he
With verity his visions so confounds,
He fancies air, fire, water, earth, will prove
To wand of faith subservient elements.

SODERINI.
They say he is to preach again. Is't true?

SPINI.
[Pointing to the pulpit outside the Duomo.]
Look! All the gear is ready. He will preach
This day at noon; a sign he's desperate.
But being still excommunicated, thus
He will but more exasperate the Pope,
Who even now forbids the embarrassed State
To raise one soldo from the Church, unless
This shorn heresiarch be despatched alive
Into his hands.

CEI.
What says the Signory?

SPINI.
To this no chance it ever will assent.
He by adoption is a Florentine,
And Florence cannot duck its knees to Rome.
So we ourselves must play the Pope, and be
Judges of orthodoxy. Mind you both
Be here at noon. Defenders of the Faith
Will all be wanted.

CEI.
'Tis a novel part,
And your demands grow enigmatical.

SPINI.
Have I not told you Frà Girolamo
Is going to preach? The Compagnacci, too,
Will be upon the ground to serenade
The sermon with some singing. Do not fail
To swell the chorus. It is time I went
To tune my instruments.

[Exit (left).]

SCENE II.

[The Funeral Bell again tolls. Groups of Piagnoni and Arrabbiati come into the Square.]
FIRST PIAGNONE.
I say it is.
Ask you these gentlemen.

FIRST ARRABBIATO.
Forgive me, sir!
But is it true the Ordeal of Fire
Is coming off to-day?

SODERINI.
The gossip jogs,
'Tis fixed for Vespers; and if I were you,
I would not miss the roasting. Come along!
[He takes Cei's arm.]
Leave these plebeian pundits to decide
Which is for Francis, which for Dominick.
The ignorant love argument.

[Exeunt (left). Another litter, carried by the Misericordia, passes; and the bell again tolls, but the People take no heed.]
FIRST PIAGNONE.
Told you so.

FIRST ARRABBIATO.
Told us what?

SECOND PIAGNONE.
That Frà Domenico
Will walk into the flames and not be burnt.

SECOND ARRABBIATO.
Frà Giuliano, the Franciscan monk,
Will brave it too, and be as little hurt.

THIRD ARRABBIATO.
But will that stop the plague?

FOURTH ARRABBIATO.
Or 'chance reduce
The price of grain, and make a crazia weigh
A trifle heavier?

FIRST ARRABBIATO.
Faith! and will it lift
From our curved backs the burden of one tax?
Will it recover Pisa, or relieve
The granaries of Leghorn idly stored?
That's what I ask.

FIRST PIAGNONE.
You fellows have no faith.
Why, Frà Girolamo has promised us
Relief from all things, so we only wait.

[Another coffin is carried past, the bell again tolling.]
SECOND ARRABBIATO.
[Pointing to the bier.]
He has done waiting; and so soon shall we,
If things in Florence long go on like this.
Half of us die, and those that die not starve;
And when faith neither feeds nor keeps alive,
It's shadowy stuff.

SECOND PIAGNONE.
But if the flames should spare
The champion of Saint Mark, yet leave their seam
On the Franciscan, surely 'twill be plain
That Heaven with Frà Girolamo agrees,
And what he says is true?

FIRST ARRABBIATO.
I'll answer “if,”
When water fails to quench and fire to burn.

SECOND ARRABBIATO.
He has promised us a miracle so long,
We want to see one.

FIRST PIAGNONE.
Faith! and so do we,
And that is why we press the Ordeal.
It is not we who shrink.

THIRD ARRABBIATO.
Who is it, then?

SECOND PIAGNONE.
Not Frà Girolamo. Why, every monk
Within Saint Mark is—

FOURTH ARRABBIATO.
Burning to be burnt.

[They all laugh.]
SECOND PIAGNONE.
I said not so, but rather that they burn—

FIRST ARRABBIATO.
To prove by burning that they will not burn.

[They laugh again.]
SECOND ARRABBIATO.
Well, let us have the Ordeal!

FIRST PIAGNONE.
That you shall;
For Frà Silvestro had a dream wherein
He saw his brother monk come out unscathed.

THIRD ARRABBIATO.
Enough of dreams! we want realities.
French Charles has come and gone, and not come back,
And Pisa, too, has gone, and not come back.
What boot these constant prophesyings? If
Savonarola be inspired,—well then,
Now is the time to show it. If he be not,
Let us be done with sermons.

VOICES.
That's the test.
A miracle! A miracle! We want
An argument that's palpable.

FIRST PIAGNONE.
But look,
Look what a lovely litter comes this way!
A maiden on her bier; her golden hair,
That keeps the only show of life she hath,
Droops o'er the darksome drapery; her hands,
Crossed in unconscious modesty, repose
Upon her bosom where love heaves no more.
Her arteries are quiet cloisters now,
Where no one even prays; her tapering limbs
Stretch on the couch, material, meaningless.
White, white from head to foot; and under each
Are cyclamens and lilies. 'Tis a sight
Far too significant for kindred life
To look on long.

FIRST ARRABBIATO.
Know you not who it is?
It is the fair Letizia, good as fair,
The sweet one of Bettuccio, ah! too sweet
For him or any other! Tasteless death
Hath got that morsel now.

SECOND PIAGNONE.
And who is that,
Walking upon the off side of the bier?

SECOND ARRABBIATO.
That is Bettuccio. Don't you see him plain
Sobbing beneath his funeral domino?
That will be Grosso, on the hither side,
Who modelled her so often;—marble now
Both copy and original. His wife
Will rail upon her comeliness no more.
She still is 'mong the quick?

THIRD ARRABBIATO.
Aye, very quick.
Dog eats not dog, and plague feeds not on plague.

FOURTH ARRABBIATO.
Her brother props behind; but who the fourth,
Whose scabbard peeps from out his ebon gown,
I can surmise not. The girl's birth was plain,
While he is labelled noble by his sword.

SECOND PIAGNONE.
Made nobler, carrying her. Besides, good friend,
Death is a democrat who levels all.

[The bier with the body of Letizia passes away (left), and Marcuccio Salviati, surrounded by a band of armed Piagnoni, is seen to be in the Square. He ranges them near the pulpit, which they surround. He himself joins the persons who are conversing. Several unarmed Piagnoni, women and children among them, come into the Piazza of the Duomo, and some of them gather round Salviati.]
FIRST ARRABBIATO.
So then, he really is about to preach?

SALVIATI.
You soon will see. For six slow months his lips
Have by the Interdict been frozen up?

FIRST PIAGNONE.
Has Rome then thawed?

SALVIATI.
No, but his own voice hath;
And from that source such eloquence will flow
That it our fortunes once again will float.

SECOND ARRABBIATO.
Heard you Frà Mariano yesterday,
Outside the Agostiniani, preach?

THIRD ARRABBIATO.
Lord! how he thumped!

SECOND PIAGNONE.
'Twas contumacious stuff,
Less worthy of the pulpit than the wharf.
The very scavengers their stomachs turned
From such a surfeit of raw violence.

THIRD PIAGNONE.
And much it stood him; for this very morn,
A deputation clamoured at Saint Mark's,
Imploring Frà Girolamo once more
To face the people.

[Doffo Spini, attended by Soderini and Cei, and followed by armed Compagnacci, enter (right). They seem surprised the space near the pulpit is already occupied by the Piagnoni. Salviati makes a sign to his followers to hold their ground. Spini and his followers cross the stage, and range themselves in a semicircle (left).]
FIRST ARRABBIATO.
Let him face them then.
Monsignor Lionardo warns us all
Not to attend.

FIRST PIAGNONE.
He is a Medici.

SECOND ARRABBIATO.
But none the less Archbishop of this See.
The Excommunication lately launched
Is by his orders being again affixed
To every church in Florence.

VOICES OF PIAGNONI.
Tear it down!

SPINI.
A shrewd device. Paste paper o'er the sun,
And vow it does not shine. As though we had
Not foes enough already in the League
Of Milan, Venice, Naples, Florence must
Secure the astute hostility of Rome;
And all because a friar will not consent
To stick to paternosters.

[Shouting is heard. Salviati hurries to the back of the stage. Crowds of people come on. Savonarola, attended by Frà Domenico and other Monks, makes his appearance, guarded by more armed Piagnoni, and ascends the pulpit, well surrounded by Salviati's band. The Compagnacci get as close as possible. The Crowd distributes itself where it can.]
FIRST PIAGNONE.
See! he comes.

SECOND PIAGNONE.
This way! this way!
We shall hear perfectly.

[Savonarola kneels, and prays before a crucifix, which stands on the ledge of the pulpit.]
SECOND PIAGNONE.
How hollow and inanimate he looks,
As though the skin were stretched upon the bone.

FIRST PIAGNONE.
Wait till he speaks, he then will seem alive;
Tighter the parchment, louder sounds the drum.

SECOND PIAGNONE.
The lines have even deepened in his brow
Since Frà Bartolommeo limned his head.
The temples and the jutting cheek-bones loom
Unnaturally large, and the sunk eyes
Have, like a spent volcano, fallen in,
Leaving dark hollowness where once was fire.
The fingers, thin and fanciful, proclaim
Vigil, and fast, and prayer.

THIRD PIAGNONE.
What would you have?
The cloister, when its weeds are rightly donned,
Is an anticipation of the grave.
Its hymns are dirges, and its sackcloth folds
Premature cerements.

FOURTH PIAGNONE.
Hush! he is going to speak.

[Savonarola rises.]
SAVONAROLA.
Servants of God! God's servant, here I stand
Under the canopy of God once more.
Why have I come? To tell you nothing new,
But reaffirm the ancient messages,
Declared to you so often. If I retract
One syllable of teaching, stone me straight,
And drive me from this pulpit.

[There is a slight commotion on the side where the Compagnacci stand; but it subsides.]
SAVONAROLA.
This is Thine,
This is Thy city, O Lord! Thine is it still,
This city of Florence, chosen by Thee, and best,
Illuminating it afresh with faith
And manners purified: first, heavenly gifts,
With gifts of earth to follow; chief of all,
Recovered liberty. Time was you crouched
Under the government of One, who said
Pay, and you paid; barter your daughters here,
And to unwilling nuptials were they forced;
Do ill, and ill from very fear you did.
But Christ delivered you, for Christ it was
Who drove the Medici from out your walls,
Bade the French King depart, and to you then
Gave the Grand Council, key and corner-stone
Of civic freedom. Pay then tax to Christ,
Your King, your Liberator, who demands
Impost of virtue, chastity, faith, prayer,
All that this life impoverish not, and rich
Will make the life to come.

[Suddenly a bomb explodes, drums are beaten, and disorder and confusion arise. Women scream, some fly from the place; and the Compagnacci, drawing their swords, strive to get near to the pulpit. But Marcuccio Salviati and his armed Piagnoni, present a determined front, and after a little the disorder subsides. Savonarola, who has not moved from the pulpit, now holds aloft a crucifix.]
SAVONAROLA.
Look on this!
Trust it, and fear not. There are those who say
That excommunications have been launched.
What excommunications? As for me,
I would that such were carried on a lance
All through the streets of Florence; weapons apt
'Gainst evil-doers and heresiarchs,
Not against those who struggle to reform
The Church of Christ. Who is it, late in Rome,
Hath lost a son, by his own brother slain
In a lewd quarrel? Would you know the way
To make this excommunication void?

[He strikes two keys together. The Crowd laugh. Then, growing terribly serious again, he continues.]
SAVONAROLA.
If I this excommunication pray
To have removed from me, then, Lord, prepare
A pit for me in Hell!

FIRST PIAGNONE.
He looks inspired.
I did not deem that a terrestrial tongue
Could sound so heavenly.

SECOND PIAGNONE.
Hush! He speaks anew!

SAVONAROLA.
This excommunication comes from Rome:
From Rome that spends its nights in harlotries,
Its noons in gossiping in choir, and turns
Altars to counters whereon gold may chink.
Upon the seat of Solomon it sits,
Provoking all that pass. It multiplies
In Italy, in France, in Spain—where not?—
Its fornications. Out with thy sword, O Lord,
And smite this ribald meretricious Church,
Its palaces, its pomp! Thy justice flash,
And give it up to hatred! Horses and dogs,
Courtiers and trappings, perfumes, tapestries,
Is this the Church of God? All things they sell,
Marriage and masses, pardons, benefices;
And excommunicate who will not buy.
I will not buy their favour. Lord, Thou knowest
These things I want not, but Thy Cross, Thy Cross.
God and the Virgin, Angels and the Saints,
I call to witness that the things revealed,
And verified divinely, were inspired
In those long vigils of the night endured
For those who turn against me.

[Again there is disturbance in the Crowd; but Marcuccio

---

246

Salviati and the Piagnoni barricade the approaches to the pulpit with their bodies. During this interval occurs the following dialogue.]
FIRST PIAGNONE.
Who can doubt
He is a Prophet?

SECOND PIAGNONE.
He whirls me like a wind
That will not let the loose leaves lag behind,
But drives them further forward than itself.

SAVONAROLA.
What do they want,
The false informers, they that have provoked
This excommunication? To destroy
Freedom of government, and in its place
Establish riotous living, luxury, vice,
The pandars of the despot! You desire
That Leghorn were relieved. Yourselves relieve
Of Satan's armies that invest your souls,
And Pisa to subjection will return.
Christ is your king, and not the Medici.
He hath command in chief, and you must use
The strategy of virtue. If for this
My soul be excommunicated here—
Yet not in Heaven! Thou, O dear Lord, didst die
For my sake, and I fain would die for Thine.
Cause them to persecute me; let me not
Die in my bed! For never have I ceased,
Through fear of men, from preaching. Take my life,
As Thine was taken. Grant me martyrdom,
And Florence resurrection!

[Savonarola turns to descend from the pulpit. But voices on every side, proceeding both from the Compagnacci and the Piagnoni, cry out.]
VOICES.
But the Fire!
How, Ser Girolamo, about the Fire,
The promised Ordeal?

SAVONAROLA.
Who promised it?
Think you I have so mean a task to do,
That I in trivial wrangles will be meshed?
What needs the spirit with these material tests?
Let them confute our doctrines, be they false,
And prove me excommunicated. Else,
I am not answered. As for prophecies,
I gave them at their value, and impose
Credence on no one; for my sole intent
Was to convert you unto godly lives,
And this needs fire, the fire of charity,
The miracle of faith. The rest is nothing.

[There are murmurs of disapprobation. People in the Crowd speak to each other, shrug their shoulders, and gesticulate.]
SAVONAROLA.
What is it you desire? 'Tis said our foes
Are ready for the flames. And so are we,
If it be for God's honour; and of this
An instant doubt not, that if those who feel
Truly inspired of Heaven confront the flame,
Out of its clutches they untouched shall come,
And not a nerve be shrivelled. If it take place,—
The which I know not. God knows. As for me,
I must reserve myself for serious work,
In fertilising which, empty my life,
Till none of it be left. Lord! take it all!
But this I tell you, miracles will come,
And portents supernatural amaze
The sensual and incredulous. O God!
Stultify not Thy servant, but be quick
And sound the hour!

[Savonarola descends from the pulpit. As he does so, Doffo Spini and the Compagnacci again strive to force their way to it, evidently intending violence to Savonarola. But Marcuccio Salviati and his followers maintain their ground, though a struggle takes place, and surround and protect Savonarola as he returns to San Marco.]
FIRST PIAGNONE.
How I wish
I could get nearer!

SECOND PIAGNONE.
Even armèd men
Could scarce in so confused an hour as this
Have contact with the Prior. How they sway
And rock against each other! There are some
Would Frà Girolamo assassinate,
Could they but penetrate to striking-point.
No fear to-day.

FIRST PIAGNONE.
Nor any day, so long
As God sustains him.

[Savonarola and his Attendants, the Arrabbiati,

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250

Piagnoni, Compagnacci, and the Crowd, gradually pass off the stage in various directions. The scene is shifted.]

SCENE III.

A Street in Florence.
Enter Luca Corsini and Domenico Bonsi (left), Guidantonio Vespucci (right).]
CORSINI.
Well met, Vespucci. Do you bring us news
Of the last sitting of the Signory?

VESPUCCI.
Yes; and news sensible. They place a gag
Upon the Friar. He is to preach no more.

BONSI.
He preached a sermon now to wake the dead
And vivify the stones. 'Twere time he ceased.
Helpful to chase the Medici, he blocks
The way to sober government, that is,
And ever was, the appanage of few.

VESPUCCI.
Was he heard plausibly?

CORSINI.
Two different streams
Contended for the current; but 'twas plain
The adverse had it.

BONSI.
That, undoubtedly.
But for Marcuccio Salviati's folk,
Who elbowed them aside, the crowd had plucked
His cassock somewhat rudely.

VESPUCCI.
Who can wonder?
For all his prophecies have come to nought.
Famine and pestilence are at their doors
Posted like sentinels, and challenge all,
Save death and hunger, that demand to pass.
This for their private woes. The public ills
Are not more few nor less accountable.
All round Volterra desolation spreads,
As an unhealthy fungus doth its spawn,
In ever-widening circles. Pescia grows
Its harvest for our foes; the Pisans scour,
Unhindered, the Maremma; and the ships
Of Venice still from Leghorn cut as off.

CORSINI.
Heard you a letter seriously shaped,
Despatched by Frà Girolamo to Charles,
Was by Il Moro seized upon the way?

BONSI.
They vouch me it contains a solemn prayer
The King a General Council would convene
To render the last conclave void and null,
Pluck the Tiara from the Borgia's head,
And give another Pope to Christendom.

VESPUCCI.
Aye, and that Ludovico hath consigned
The bold petition to the Pontiff's hands.

CORSINI.
An accident more likely to succeed,
Than many a deft design. Take this for sure:
When chance conspires against a man, his days
Of eminence are numbered. In this world,
That grows its crop of courtiers by the hour,
There never was so rank a sycophant
As this same Fortune.

VESPUCCI.
I was homeward bound
Unto the midday meal, a while delayed
By the irregular motion of these times.
I pray you share it with me.

BONSI.
Willingly,
Where we may then more leisurely discourse
Of the immediate symptoms of the State,
And what should be their medicine.

CORSINI.
After you.

[Exeunt (left). As they do so, enter Candida (right), and tries one of the doors.]

SCENE IV.

CANDIDA
(alone).
Not yet returned! He lingers by the grave,
Whose cold insensate pressure hardens round
The unresisting softness his void arms
Were wont to fondle! In the light of death
Love grows intelligible. Love is loss,
Or that which we might lose, and I have lost
What I was careful not enough to keep,
Since, through some shyness in the blood, afraid
To note I had it, till I had it not.
Yet were I now the comfort of some heart
That, like to mine, craves to be comforted,
I might Letizia's or Bettuccio's fate
Invite, which now I baffle, being alone.
Came death, it me would wrench from no one's arms,
Nor leave a bleeding branch. Alas! poor youth!
He is one rent; lest he should drip to death,
Some styptic must be found. I would have coaxed
His footsteps from her tomb, had custom left
Open that avenue; but 'tis ordained,
In death, as sooth in every pinch of life,
That women, lest they cry too loud, must hug
Their agony in silence.

[Enter a figure (left), draped in the robes of the Misericordia.]
CANDIDA.
Here is one
Perchance can second me. Forgive me, sir,
But since you wear the draperies of death,
You chance can tell me if the charnel hath
Closed its stiff hinges on the final jaunt
Of her they called Letizia?

DRAPED FIGURE.
She is urned
In the damp cells of subterranean sleep,
And never more will net the April wind,
Nor mirror glancing summer in her cheek.
Her ways are nothingness.

CANDIDA.
And he, to whom
They late were all?

DRAPED FIGURE.
A pitiable sight!
He plunged against the hard unyielding earth,
As though it were another element,
And he by dint of forcible wide arms
Could dive to where she had been plummeted.
Recovered from that fancy, he repaired
Straight to San Marco, resolute to don
The garb of Dominick.

CANDIDA.
O well resolved!
And it will put a crown on her content,
In that far Paradise where now she dwells,
To have him thus so near her. When he dies
Their union will be instant.

DRAPED FIGURE.
You predict
As one who knew them well.

CANDIDA.
And well I did.
She was the lovingest maiden ever lisped,
And he the round fulfilment of her dream.
I cannot think of them apart; they were,
If dual, only in the double sense
That all things are which you may cleave in twain,
As death awhile hath cleft them.

DRAPED FIGURE.
Happy pair,
To have known unity, that aching quest
Of conscious fragments!

CANDIDA.
Have you lost it too?
Whoe'er you be, my pity wells to you.

DRAPED FIGURE.
Alack! I never had that prize to lose.
There was a maiden, as it might be you,
And truly not less comely,—can you bear
The praises of another in your ear,—
Who might have made my oneness, and would not.

CANDIDA.
That sounds unlike; for though I cannot scan
Your aspect under that disfavouring robe,
'Tis like an instinct to surmise of one
Whose speech is fair, his seeming were not foul.

DRAPED FIGURE.
Ah! fair and foul in love are close allied!
Spring in her eyes, but winter in her heart,
She coaxed the frail white blossom of love to show,
Then with a frost untimely nipped it black.

CANDIDA.
I pray you then, compare me not with her:
I never had done that.

DRAPED FIGURE.
[Throwing aside the dress of the Misericordia.]
Who did it, then?

CANDIDA.
Valori!
[Valori stands motionless, and both are silent. Then Candida resumes.]
Upon me you charge that sin!
If such offence unwomanly were mine,
I would not check contrition. But O, sir!
True as I am a maiden, ne'er with guile,
Nor any knowledge of the thing I did,
Entangled I your fancy. Even now
I am of instinct destitute to know
What in me dwelleth to make you complete;
Or rather dwelt:—for 'tis the past you chide,
And, being the past, 'tis easily forgot.

VALORI.
There is no past in such a love as mine,
But a perpetual present, foiling time;
And but for some poor service to the State,
Poor but persistent, its unanswered want
Had questioned my existence. As it is,
It follows me like silence, which we note
Only when hubbub ceases. Fare you well!
My homage linger with you! Public cares
Exact me now.

CANDIDA.
Can they one moment spare,
One minute of your life before you go?
Am I unmaidenly? But there is that
Which I would fain deliver, knew I how.
You spoke of homage; homage is to you,
And I am choking with it. You are great,
Far—fixed—magnanimous, I know not what,
For I have but a girl's vocabulary,
But that which women venerate and admire.
Think noble, mark of manly masterdom:
You understand me—don't you?—tell me, sir!

VALORI.
I understand you, maiden, very well.
You give me hugely more than is my due,
But infinitely less than is my want.
You exile me to Heaven, while all I craved
Was one near touch of earthly tenderness.
I thank you, but I pray you let me go,
Or I shall but again untune my mind,
Strung by restraint to active harmony,
By dwelling on that chord. Respect me still;
'Tis all that I can hope for in this sphere.

CANDIDA.
Now, now, you grow too manly! Reverence, fear.
Praise inarticulate, bold reluctancy,—
Why, what are these? There is a word—a word—
I do not think I know it, though your lips
Have framed it often—will you help me not?—
A word—a word—out with it then!—'tis Love!

[He opens his arms, and she sinks into them.]
VALORI.
True? Is it true? Then love me as Love loves:
Let the heart's fervour rush up to the lips,
And bubble over! Is it long, sweet life,
That you have known this secret?

CANDIDA.
Only now!
Love's way with us and you is different.
You mind me of the swallow that is here
To-day, and all at once, that yesterday
Was nowhere to be seen, so swift he comes;
While we are like the lilac-tips, and bud
For a provoking season ere we break.
We dream, not even knowing that we dream,
Up to the very moment we awake.

VALORI.
And you have woke?

CANDIDA.
O yes! to find it day.
But I must not monopolise my sun.
The State, I know, hath need of you. It was
In noting how you love her, that I learnt
To—tell me how you call it;

VALORI.
Learnt to love,
As I love you!

CANDIDA.
How well you guess my thought!
Only—is this not so?—there is no love,
That merits such high christening, but is built
Firm upon some foundation out of sight;
God, country, virtue, something not ourself,
To which ourself is nothing, save the proof
Of its invisible sureness.

VALORI.
You recall
The savour of our colloquy that night—
Do you remember?—when the shooting stars
Trailed you a text for holy homily.
Nor shall we lack the sanction, love, you seek.
The peril of the Commonwealth is close.
Alone I had to fence it through the months
Savonarola still forbore to preach.
His voice is now inhibited again,
And this time by the Signory. The crowd,
Gross misinterpreters of subtle speech,
And sturdy for the tangible, demand
A miracle, a portent, some plain proof
That Heaven is his confederate.

CANDIDA.
It will come,
If it be needed.

VALORI.
Who will know the need?

CANDIDA.
Why, He who knoweth all things. Be at peace.

VALORI.
I do not like this Ordeal of Fire.
It is a lure devised to ruin him:
A touchstone, whereby tested, never cause
Yet was, but did betray too much alloy.
It is a worldlier world, love, than you think;
Where Virtue drowns because it cannot swim,
While dexterous Vice rides buoyant on the wave,
Because it knows the trick.

CANDIDA.
Yet there was One
Whose divine virtue walked upon the waves.
Trust Him and your strong deeds.

VALORI.
And your soft voice.

CANDIDA.
Nay, never trust to that! I am not yet
What love and you must make me. I will strive,
By clasping as the ivy clasps, to climb
As high as that it clings to.

VALORI.
Clasp it now,
No parasite, but with thy leaning love
Buttress life's lofty purposes. But see,
Your words have made me—

CANDIDA.
Never fear to weep;
For tears are summer showers to the soul,
To keep it fresh and green; gathering no more,
The shrivelled leaves of faith and fancy fall,
And winter settles on a waning life.

VALORI.
O my delicious April, never cease
To weep and smile at once!

[Persiane are flung back, doors are thrown open, and there are signs of afternoon.]
CANDIDA.
But see, the streets,
Midday siesta over, 'gin to stir
With common life; and this uncommon joy
Must at the harsh stroke of familiar things
Own its brief hour concluded. There! Farewell!

VALORI.
But whither do you go?

CANDIDA.
Can you not guess!
To render thanks for this felicity,
Within my votive chapel in Saint Mark's,
Whose Square my homely lattice overlooks.

VALORI.
May I not go with you?

CANDIDA.
No, stay and act.
Defend the Commonwealth; and that will be
Petition and thanksgiving all at once.
Now, now, I pray, release me; for the eyes
Of those that love not, delicacy lack
To judge of them that do.

VALORI.
When shall we meet?

CANDIDA.
Why, always! All my days are henceforth yours.
Yours will be mine, when nobly occupied.

[They separate. Exit Candida (right).]
VALORI.
O, I am sated with my happiness!
Gods! send me a woe a little, that I may
Recover my lost appetite for joy!

[Valori turns to leave (left). As he does so, Luca Corsini, Domenico Bonsi, and Guidantonio Vespucci enter (left).]

SCENE V.

VALORI.
I greet you, gentlemen!

[Exit.]
CORSINI.
His glance is bright.
But often so are suns before they set.
I ween his day is over.

BONSI.
It may be
The austere Candida has smiled on him.
Reasons of State could lend him no such glow.

VESPUCCI.
I saw a troop of gallants yesterday,
Who wagered his destruction: cousins all
Of Tornabuoni he denounced to death.

CORSINI.
Ha! have they then returned? Significant!
When storks fly back to roofs that have been fired,
It shows the flames are out that ravaged them!

BONSI.
Perhaps not out, but turned the other way,
'Gainst those that flashed the flint.

VESPUCCI.
It is the hour
Denoted for the Ordeal of Fire.
We ought to have been there.

CORSINI.
Too childish work!
Fit for the fools that gape at tombola!
Yet licensed by the Signory!

BONSI.
'Chance more wise
In that indulgence than in many a stroke
Reputed statecraft. Here is one that comes,
Likely can tell us how 'tis prospering.
[Enter Soderini (right).]
Say, come you from the Ordeal?

SODERINI.
Straight and swift.

VESPUCCI.
Who has been burnt?

CORSINI.
Why, surely all of them.

SODERINI.
Nay, not a cowl nor single sandal scorched.
A splendid fire! an appetising fire!
But not a single friar to be fried.

BONSI.
Came they not then?

SODERINI.
O yes, they came in shoals,
Franciscans and Dominicans alike,
And went away again. 'Twas holy sport.
[Enter Cei (right).]
Was it not, Cei? Tell these gentlemen.

CEI.
'Tis easy told. The Loggia de' Lanzi
Was split in half: half to Saint Dominick,
And t'other to Saint Francis. I should count
At least two hundred champions from Saint Mark's,
Headed by Frà Domenico; with these,
Marcuccio Salviati and his train,
Who with his sword a line upon the ground
Irately scratched, vowing that he who crossed
Should taste his point.

VESPUCCI.
But Spini sure was there?

SORDERINI.
Briskly he was, and round him all his lads,
Spangled with arms, and phalanxed underneath
The Tetto de' Pisani. 'Twixt the twain,
Stood soldiers of the Signory and filled
All the Piazza, save the platformed space
That, hedged with fagots, pine-cones, resin, oil,
Stretched out for forty braccia.

CEI.
And behind
Packed close as Lenten herrings, fifties deep,
Peered all the eyes that love a miracle;
And every roof and window in the Square
Was cloyed with folk like branches when bees swarm.

CORSINI.
But where was Savonarola?

SODERINI.
He was there,
Raimented white and carrying the Host,
Close by the side of Frà Domenico;
He habited in crimson, and his hands
Clasping a massive crucifix. In truth,
Flickered no fear on either countenance,
But that fixed glow my mother says is Faith,
And which, I own, I never yet have seen
Saving upon men's faces when they pray.

BONSI.
And where were the Franciscans?

CEI.
In the Square,
In their half of the Loggia; but appeared
Neither their champion Frà Giuliano, nor
The Frà Francesco that abetted him.
They with the Signory were closeted,
Too worldly wise to try if fire will burn,
Yet pressingly bewildered how to shirk
The hollow challenge solidly received
By mystic rivals.

SODERINI.
Suddenly it was urged
That Frà Domenico's red velvet cope
Might be enchanted by the demon spells
Of Frà Girolamo. Forthwith 'twas doffed.
What, Cei, plea came next? for I forget.

CEI.
'Twas laughable. They made him change his vest
With one of the Franciscans. Then they cried
He must remove from Frà Girolamo,
So that no hocus-pocus might be tried,
And stand 'mong the Franciscans.

BONSI.
To these tests
What answered Frà Domenico?

SODERINI.
Never blenched,
But fix'dly clasped his crucifix. O, he played
The fanatic to perfection. Only when
It was proposed to take that last poor help
Out of his hands, and send him on alone
Into the flames, he seemed to hesitate,
And prayed he might exchange it for the Host.
Then rose there such a hubbub as you hear
In o'erstocked rookeries at Whitsuntide
When the young birds are harried in their haunts.
A clatter of theology began:
Some shouted “sacrilege!” while some harangued
About “essential substance” “accidents,”
And suchlike fond conceits. The Signory
Cut short their long scholastic, and announced
The Ordeal deferred. See! Here they come,
The disappointed rabble.

CORSINI.
Let us go.
The after-drip of folly damps as much
As doth the storm itself.

[Exeunt Corsini, Bonsi, and Vespucci (left). Cei and Soderini remain. A crowd, composed of Piagnoni, Compagnacci, and Arrabbiati indiscriminately, comes on (right).]
FIRST ARRABBIATO.
A trap! a sham!
A hollow business!

FIRST PIAGNONE.
Whose fault was that?

SECOND ARRABBIATO.
Why, whose but your prophetic shavenpate's,
Whose prophesyings ever come to nought?

SECOND PIAGNONE.
He did not prophesy the Ordeal.

FIRST COMPAGNACCIO.
But, when 'twas there, why did he shrink from it?

SODERINI.
Answer that riddle; if he wants to show
He is inspired, why not confront the flames
And make no more ado?

CEI.
And not stand by
Arguing, while others proffer to be burnt.

SECOND COMPAGNACCIO.
And are not burnt, nor even so much as singed,
Though everything they stickled for was trim
As faith could wish.

THIRD PIAGNONE.
Exactly what I feel.
A miracle was fairly due to us,
An actual downright patent miracle;
No visions, and stale juggleries of that sort,
But a good noonday miracle; one we could see,
And none could doubt about.

SECOND COMPAGNACCIO.
Now, do you think,
Were he in league with Heaven, he'd hesitate
To stand in hissing turpentine all day,
Like to the saints of old? What say you, man?

SECOND PIAGNONE.
I can say nothing; only that I wish
That Frà Girolamo had faced the Fire,
And made an end of it.

SECOND COMPAGNACCIO.
End of himself.
Leave him alone; he knows what he's about.

FIRST ARRABBIATO.
Ay, that he does, the tonsured charlatan;
A rank impostor.

SECOND PIAGNONE.
Nay, he is not that.

SECOND ARRABBIATO.
What is he, then? A prophet, I suppose?

SECOND PIAGNONE.
I did not say he was.

FIRST COMPAGNACCIO.
If he is not,
What is the good of him?

TAILOR.
Such swindling work,
To lure industrious folks from off their stools
With promise of a miracle, and then
Befool them with a wrangle!

COBBLER.
In the time
I wasted gaping there, I could have made
Two uppers and a last. A sorry scene!
I've done with friars.

FIRST CITIZEN.
And so have I.

SECOND CITIZEN.
And I.

[Shouting is heard. The Crowd turn in the direction whence it proceeds; and Spini, followed by a band of armed Compagnacci, rushes upon the stage.]
SPINI.
A San Marco! A San Marco col Fuoco!

COMPAGNACCI.
On, comrades, to St. Mark's!

CEI.
What does he mean?

SODERINI.
You trust to him for that.
Whate'er he says, that echo!

[Spini waves his sword, and again cries, “To Saint Mark's!” The cry is taken up universally, and the air rings with the shout.]
ALL.
A San Marco col Fuoco! A San Marco col Fuoco!

[The Crowd follow Spini off the stage. The scene changes.]

SCENE VI.

The Piazza of San Marco.
[The façade of the Church occupies the centre of the back of the stage. On either side of it is an archway, through which the side-walls of the Church and the Convent of San Marco can be seen. On the right are houses. The doors of the Church are open, and people, mostly women, can be seen kneeling and praying inside. A girl rises from her knees, crosses herself, turns, and walks towards the doorway. It is Candida. As she reaches the atrium of the Church, enter Valori hurriedly (left). Candida descends the steps.
VALORI.
Love, have you prayed?

CANDIDA.
As ne'er I prayed before.
My heart was brimming over, and it felt
As if we prayed together.

VALORI.
So we did;
And never moment needed more our prayer.
All the air whispers danger. You must go,
And keep within your house. 'Tis there, is't not?

CANDIDA.
Yes, with a garden of my own behind:
When will you see it? I would show it you.
There is a belt of pinks, christened quite wrong,
For white, all white, and scented like the clove;
A running riband of perfumëd snow,
Which the hot sun is melting rapidly.
When will you come?

VALORI.
When I have peril pushed
A blade's length further off?

CANDIDA.
Is it so grave?

VALORI.
No, no, 'tis nothing. I will see to it.
Go to your garden.

CANDIDA.
Then, behind the pinks,
Are ostentatious marigolds that flaunt
Their buxom wealth i' the sun; tall poppy stems
Almost as long as your sword, and O, with heads
Plump as a gourd; light-nodding meadow-sweet,
Gracious as plume of gallant cavalier
Throned on his steed; and modest mignonette,
That, nowhere seen, surmised is everywhere.

VALORI.
So unpretentious virtue sweetens life.
I long to see it.

CANDIDA.
Round my casement blow
Those clustering roses fancy hath baptized
Maids-of-the-Village; and adown they hang,
Like to a waterfall you see far off,
That foams but moves not. O come soon, or they
Will all be shattered.

VALORI.
Life were too sweet, too sweet,
With these and thee! I scarce can think that Heaven
Hath kept this Heaven upon the hither side
For my poor lump of earth, save heavenly thou
Exorcise my mortality! But hark!
[Loud shouts are heard, hard-by.]
There! go, my love! and in your garden stay!

CANDIDA.
And wait there till you come? You will come soon?
O, you should smell it when the first faint stars
Peep through the darkening lattice of the sky,
To see if night be coming: better still,
When 'tis in stealthy darkness muffled up,
And drenched with dew invisible.

VALORI.
To-night!
And when the times are sweeter, many a night
We'll savour it together.

[Candida retires into her house. Valori passes under the archway (right), and disappears round an angle of the wall. Shouts again are heard proceeding from the back of the Convent. There is a panic in the Church, from which women and children rush and disappear in every direction. Inside the Church are now a number of Monks, some of them armed. Conspicuous among them is Bettuccio, now Frà Benedetto, wearing the habit of Dominick, but with a breastplate over it, and brandishing a sword. Simultaneously, a number of Arrabbiati pour into the Square, and attempt to enter the Church. The Monks resist, fighting with rude weapons, some of them with heavy church candlesticks and candelabra, one Monk laying about him with a massive metal crucifix. The assailants are beaten off. At this juncture Savonarola appears in the doorway of the Church, attended by Frà Domenico.]
SAVONAROLA.
Lay down your arms, my children. 'Tis through me
This tempest hath arisen, I must lay;
And with my blood it will assuagëd be.
Into their hands I will surrender me,
My enemies, to do what sooth they will.

FRÀ DOMENICO.
O Father! you must not abandon us!
They for your life are thirsting. What shall we do,
If once you leave us?

SAVONAROLA.
Then, my children, form
Yourselves into procession; we will pass
Along the cloister, thence into the choir,
And there before the Eucharist will sing
Saluum fac populum tuum, Domine!
Frà Benedetto! put away that sword,
And take the Cross. No follower of mine
Must shed man's blood, unless it be his own
In stream of sacrifice! Now, chant the hymn!

[The Procession is formed, and they pass up the Church singing. The doors are closed and bolted. Shouts again are heard; and another band of Compagnacci and Arrabbiati enter (left), headed by Spini.
SPINI.
Ha! they are shut. Then waste we not our blows
Battering their stubbornness. This way, my lads!
I know a tenderer entrance.

[They pass under the archway (left), and disappear. At the same moment Valori lets himself down from the top of the Convent wall (right), and is followed by Marcuccio Salviati. They both come through the archway (right) on to the body of the stage.]
VALORI.
Go, then, quick,
And bring us at your heels what help you can;
And I will hasten to the Signory,
And rouse their apathy.

[Exit Salviati (right). Valori turns to cross the stage and pass out (left). Enter (left) six Gentlemen armed.]
FIRST GENTLEMAN.
See! Here he is! Now then to finish him.
We are Lorenzo Tornabuoni's kin,
And his pretence survives upon our points.
Defend yourself!

[Valori draws, and for a moment he parries their attacks. A fresh Crowd surges into the square. Candida comes out of her house (right), and rushes towards Valori, who is run through the body at the same moment, while she receives a thrust that was meant for him. Both fall. The Crowd rush, shouting, under each archway (right and left), and the Kindred of Tornabuoni hurry off, the wounded forms of Valori and Candida alone occupying the stage.]
CANDIDA.
I wish that I had loved you, love, before.

VALORI.
I wish you had! But many things come late
In this unpunctual world!

CANDIDA.
Yet, love, it is
Only a separation. We shall meet,
A little minute hence.

VALORI.
Art clear of that?
For I have been so busy with the State
In these sad times, that I had utterly
Forgot my soul.

CANDIDA.
That's a forgetfulness
God will remember, and absolve you, dear.
Who loves his country never forfeits Heaven.

VALORI.
Have you strength left to kiss me, Candida?
Even in Heaven touch of those lips would be
A blessëd recollection. See! I am here!
[He stretches out his hand, and by it she draws herself towards him.]
Is that your garden that I smell? How sweet!

[They die; her lips on his. Shouts again are heard; and Compagnacci and Arrabbiati pour through both archways into the Square. Soderini, who is amongst them, notices the dead bodies, and throws his cloak over them.]
SODERINI.
Wedded, at last. O enviable pair!

SPINI.
These shavelings make the stubbornest defence
That ever I encountered. We must go
And roll up more attack.

CEI.
Ay, that we must.
Scores of our chaps lie sprawling at the foot
Of the Convent Wall.

SPINI.
Then let us lose no time.
Look you! the sun is down.

[They disappear, and the body of the stage is unoccupied. At that moment, the doors of the Church are thrown open. Savonarola appears, carrying the Host, and surrounded by his Brethren.]
SAVONAROLA.
This your defence I bid you cease, and here,
Here before God, my sons, before His Host,
With enemies around you swarming, I
Confirm to you my doctrine. What I taught,
From God I had, and that I lie not, He
My witness is in Heaven! I did not think
Against me would so swift this city turn.
But now God's will be done! My last request,
My final exhortation, is but this:
Faith, patience, prayer, your only weapons be!
With anguish do I quit you all, to go
Into my enemies' hands. I cannot say
If they will take my life; but this is sure,
That, dead, I can in Heaven assist you more,
Than ever here on earth. Be comforted.
Hold fast the Cross, and with it you will find
The portals of Salvation!

[Shouts again are heard, and the Compagnacci, Arrabbiati, and Populace, return to the Piazza. With them are armed Officers of the Signory. Savonarola stands mute, with the Host in his hand, surrounded by his brethren, Frà Domenico and Frà Silvestro being on either side of him.]
OFFICER OF THE SIGNORY.
I am here
With orders from the Signory to claim
And lead away as prisoners of State,
Savonarola, Frà Domenico,
And Frà Silvestro.

SAVONAROLA.
Here we stand, unarmed.

[He hands the Host to one of the Monks, and advances. Then he turns to the Brethren.]
SAVONAROLA.
Mind you, my children, never must you doubt
The work of the Lord will still march on apace.
My death will only hasten it.

[Savonarola offers himself a prisoner to the Officers, and Frà Domenico and Frà Silvestro do the same. They are bound with cords and led down the steps. The Crowd shout, surround Savonarola, mock and insult him, as he is led away. The Curtain falls.]