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ARTES
1837
SCIENTIA
VERITAS
LIBRARY:
OF THE
UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN
E-PLURIBUS UNUM
TUE BOR
SIQUAERIS PENINSULAM AMOENAM
CIRCUMSPICE

8228
D27
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SAVONAROLA

nel
BY THE SAME AUTHOR.
THROUGH LATTICE WINDOWS.
JUDITH BOLDERO.
POEMS AND LYRICS.
MAKERS OF MODERN ENGLISH.
!
SAVONAROLA
A DRAMA
700090
BY
W. J. DAWSON
LONDON
GRANT RICHARDS
1900
All rights are reserved
Edinburgh: T. and A. CONSTABLE, Printers to Her Majesty
PREFACE
The following drama is intended as an acting play. The
great figure of Savonarola is one of the most dramatic in
history, and I cannot doubt that in the hands of an efficient
actor the character of Savonarola might be interpreted after
a fashion that should fulfil the best canons of art without
in the slightest degree transgressing against the reverence
due to the religious aims of Savonarola's career.
In the construction of such a drama, and in view of the
exigencies of stage management, certain concessions are un-
avoidable. Thus Felice Strozzi, who is but a name and
scarcely a memory in Savonarola's career, has been put in
relations with him not justified by history. On the other
hand, in all the more important speeches of Savonarola, the
words used are substantially his own. The poem quoted in
Sc. 2, Act I., is an exact translation of his own words.
The speech delivered in the Piazza by Savonarola in
Act II. consists almost entirely of well-known passages
from his poems and sermons. His interview with Lorenzo
is matter of history. It would be tedious to quote further
passages of the drama which may be fully justified by
biography; my purpose in calling attention to these passages
is to show that my aim has been to make Savonarola his
own interpreter.
vi
SAVONAROLA
་
The point of view from which Savonarola is regarded in
this drama is that of the Patriot and Reformer. That he
was also a poet, a philosopher, a saint, and in all things a
man of genius, is admitted; nor is it possible to ignore at
any point the depth and intensity of his religious passion.
But for the purposes of stage representation it is as a Patriot
that he is most impressive. I do not, however, suggest this
as an inclusive conception. It is not, in my opinion, beyond
the competence of the stage, which should reflect the entire
soul of man, to give adequate indication of the profound
religious passion of Savonarola, and it should not be difficult
to do so with becoming delicacy and restraint.
In order to guard myself against any accusation of
plagiarism, I may add that the love-song introduced in
Sc. 1, Act. III., is a free adaptation of two verses of
a Canzone by Giacomino Pugliesi, admirably rendered
by Dante Gabriel Rossetti in his Dante and His Circle.
W. J. DA WSON.
I
1
SAVONAROLA
A DRAMA IN FOUR ACTS
The First Act takes place in Ferrara; the remaining Acts in
Florence.
ACT I. A House in Ferrara.
ACT II. [Nine years later.]
The Piazza della Signoria at
Florence.
ACT III. SCENE 1. The Terrace of the Villa Careggi.
SCENE 2. A Room in the Villa Careggi.
ACT IV. SCENE 1. The Piazza della Signoria.
SCENE 2. The Rose-Garden at St. Mark's.
SCENE 3. The Piazza.
DRAMATIS PERSONÆ
GEROLAMO SAVONAROLA.
ANTONIO SAVONAROLA.
LORENZO MEDICI, the Magnificent, Ruler of Florence.
PICO MIRANDOLA, a Poet.
NICCOLO MACHIAVELLI.
GIOVANNI PISANO, a Courtier.
FRA BENEDETTO, a Dominican Monk.
FRA ENRICO, a Dominican Monk.
PIETRO MASSOLINI, a Worker in Silver.
BALDASSARE, an Artisan.
CINQUANTI, an Artisan.
The Bishop of Vasona.
Courtiers of Lorenzo.
Monks of St. Mark's.
Mace-Bearers of the Signory.
People of the Streets.
Soldiers.
FELICE STROZZI.
HELENA SAVONAROLA.
Various Ladies of the Court and Women of the People.
ACT I
SCENE I
A large apartment in an ancient house at Ferrara. Through
the open window is seen a flower-garden, with distant view.
A lute lies upon the table, together with books, etc.
Helena Savonarola is seated at a spinning-wheel.
[Spinning, sings:]
HELENA.
Wheel of my love,
Spin, spin:
Flowers for the bee,
And the bee within,
Love, like a flower,
With a sting within ;
Spin, spin.
Wheel of the world,
Spin, spin:
Flower of the world
With the worm within;
O, sweet flowers,
And the worm of sin;
Spin, spin.
Heigho! I can spin no more.
window and looks out.]
went out at sunrise,
[Goes to the
Where is Geralamo? He
it is now near noon. He
A
2
SAVONAROLA
grows pale and thin, and I know not why. Now,
if this marriage were arranged, all would be well
with him; but, alas! we have grown poor as the
Strozzis have grown rich. Felice Strozzi,-she is
good, young, beautiful, and I think she loves him.
And yet my heart misgives me; something tells
me that so great a joy is not for my dear child,
nor for his mother. [The door opens, and Felice
Strozzi enters.]
May I come in?
FELICE.
HELENA.
Welcome, Felice. [Kisses her.] Have you seen
my Geralamo to-day?
FELICE.
I saw him at sunrise. He rode past my window,
and he gave me this [pointing to a rose in her
bosom]. Later on I saw him with my father. I
have not seen him since.
HELENA.
Felice, is that all you have to say? Come, my
child, I have known you ever since you were an
infant,-cannot you trust me a little? [Felice
kneels at her side, and hides her face on her shoulder.]
Tell me one thing: Do you love my son?
SAVONAROLA
3
FELICE.
[In a low voice.] Must I speak?
HELENA.
Not unless you wish, my child.
FELICE.
[Takes the rose from her bosom and kisses it.]
He
gave me this rose.
That is my reply.
Is it
enough?
HELENA.
God and the saints be praised! Yet the rose
fades,-see, already the leaves are falling. Ah! I
have my fears.
FELICE.
Fears? Of me? [Helena shakes her head.] Of
whom, then?
HELENA.
Of my son a little: of your father-much.
Geralamo has never been like other children,—not
like Antonio, for instance. He walks upon the
clouds, has never seemed to take quite kindly to
the earth, do you know what I mean? His eyes
have a look of mixed audacity and sorrow in them
sometimes, have you seen it?
FELICE.
I have seen tenderness and love in them; that
was enough for me.
4
SAVONAROLA
HELENA.
And then there is your father. He is hard and
proud,—a man of iron. When Geralamo tells him
that he loves you, he will be angry. Yes, I
know it.
FELICE.
Why should he be angry? We have done no
wrong. We have only loved, and that we cannot
help.
HELENA.
But men like the Strozzis are often angry with-
out cause. Pride does not reason, it only strikes.
Don't you know that, Felice mine? [A bell rings
at the gateway, outside the house. Rising.] Ah! it
is my dear son.
He is coming.
FELICE.
And I must go. It would seem as if I sought
him, if he found me here. But, see, I leave the
rose he gave me on the table. Perhaps he will
recognise it, and take it as a sign of love. He will
know that I have kissed it, and he will put it to
his lips, and all the little leaves of the rose will
kiss him back for my sake. Ah, how foolishly I
speak, but then I am so happy. [Sings softly as
she leaves the room :]
SAVONAROLA
5
LO
A rose in a garden once silently grew ;
Joy was its sunshine, and love was its dew.
A god saw its beauty, and deeper it blushed.
He kissed it, and, lo! a strange tremor it knew,
For it changed to a maiden with fair cheeks rose-flushed,
And eyes that were clear and bright as the dew.
[Disappears singing. Savonarola enters by opposite
door. He is very pale.]
SAVONAROLA.
Did I hear some one singing? How strange, to
live all these years in a world like this, and still
to be able to sing!
[Goes to table;
sees the rose upon
Stands silent.
His mother puts
it, and takes it up.
her hand upon his arm, and says:]
HELENA.
My son, why do you not speak? Has some-
thing happened?
SAVONAROLA.
I have seen Pietro Strozzi, that is all. [Crosses
the room. Begins to play upon the lute very softly.
His mother stands watching him. The playing goes
on for some moments.]
HELENA.
[Aside.] It is a requiem he plays! [Aloud.]
My son, my son, do not play that sad music. It
is a sign that we are about to part.
!
6
SAVONAROLA
SAVONAROLA.
[Rising from the lute.] Yes, mother, you are
right. We are about to part. All the world has
come to an end with me to-day.
HELENA.
Why, what has happened? You went out
happy this morning?
SAVONAROLA.
This morning is a long time ago. Mother, have
you ever seen the storm-cloud in the Apennines?
One moment all is bright, and the next a great
black curtain falls over the world, and the thunder
calls, like a threatening voice among the hills. So
the storm-cloud has come upon me. I am alone
in the impenetrable darkness. There is a narrow
path beneath my feet; it leads up and up, past
the Calvary upon the hill, past all the tall
crosses on which the pale Christ watches me; up,
I know not whither; and yet I know that I must
follow this road to the end.
HELENA.
You frighten me.
What do you mean?
SAVONAROLA.
What I say, mother. I have at last something
SAVONAROLA
I must do, a way that I must take. I knocked
at the door of Learning. I went in, and said, 'I
will live here.' But the place was very cold, and
there were evil eyes that watched me. I knocked
at the door of Love. It opened, and a hand
touched mine and drew me; but when I would
have entered in, the door was shut against me.
Closed doors and empty rooms everywhere,
mother. There is but one more door at which I
can knock, it is the door of the Church.
HELENA.
Not that not that, my son! Ah, now I see
your meaning. You would enter the cloister,—and
pray what would you find there? Men no better
than those you meet outside-often much worse.
SAVONAROLA.
I will make them better.
HELENA.
So every one says, but no one does it. What
good have all our martyrs done us? The world
is just as bad as ever.
SAVONAROLA.
But if no one had tried to make it better, how
much worse would it have been.
8
SAVONAROLA
HELENA.
Ah, my son, I know you better than you think.
You have asked Pietro Strozzi for Felice, and he
has refused you. You think your heart is broken:
after all, may it not be your pride that is broken?
And when you talk as though you could make
the world better, what is that but pride?
SAVONAROLA.
Mother, I cannot argue. It may be that my
heart is broken, it may be only my pride, as you
say; but this I know, something is broken in me.
[He turns to the lute again, and striking a few chords,
gradually comes back to the requiem music he has
played before.]
HELENA.
[Weeping.] Did I not say it was a sign that we
were about to part? [Exit.]
SAVONAROLA.
[Taking the rose from the table.] It was she who
sang, this is her rose. [He kisses it. As he does so,
the petals fall to the ground, leaving only the stalk.]
It is an omen. Everything seems falling, fading,
breaking to-day. [Exit.]
SAVONAROLA
9
SCENE II
A day later. The same room. Evening. Savonarola at a
table, writing. Through the open window the sunset is
seen, and distant music is heard.
SAVONAROLA.
Ah, the revels have begun-pomps and music,
flung flowers and unthinking laughter, and it is
for such a price that Italy has sold her freedom.
In Ferrara, in Florence-it is everywhere the
same; the people kiss the jewelled hand of the
tyrant, and know not that every diamond is the
quintessence of a thousand tears, every ruby a
drop of blood wrung from a broken heart! Well
doth the prophet say, 'My people do not think,
they will not consider.' But let me on with my
poem. [Reads:]
The world is upside down,
In wild confusion lost,
The very depth and essence lost
Of all good things and every virtue bright,
Nor shines one living light,
Nor one who of his vices feels the shame.
[Antonio Savonarola, his younger brother, enters the
room, in full court-dress of the period.]
ANTONIO.
What, writing still?
You write too much,
10
SAVONAROLA
brother; you go abroad too little. Are you not
coming to the Carnival? Do you not know that
to-morrow is St. George's day?
SAVONAROLA.
I cannot come. I have work to do.
ANTONIO.
Work is a word for slaves. Why, all Ferrara
is abroad to-night-the streets blaze like a fair.
And you pluck your lip, roll doleful eyes, and say,
like some whipped galley-slave, chained to his
oar, 'I cannot come. I have work to do.'
SAVONAROLA.
Nevertheless I cannot come, Antonio; I am
too sad.
ANTONIO.
Then you're the only one in all Ferrara who is
sad to-night. Why, every one we know will be
at the Palace, and the Prince will have gifts for
all. I saw old Pietro Strozzi and Felice going
as I came in, and Felice looked as happy as a
flower.
SAVONAROLA.
Tell me how she looked.
ANTONIO.
Why, as I said, like a flower, like a lily, all in
SAVONAROLA
11
white and gold, and her eyes shone, and she
smiled-you know how-the lips parted ever so
little so that the white teeth were just seen,-it
is a way she has.
SAVONAROLA.
'Her eyes shone'-so she was happy. Ah, she
little knows that she goes to dance over broken
hearts.
ANTONIO.
Why, what now? What do you mean, brother?
SAVONAROLA.
[Rising from his desk.] Is explanation needed?
Listen, then. You will dance to-night in the
great hall of the Palace; underneath that hall
there are dungeons, and in those dungeons there
are prisoners. In their starving misery they will
hear the clatter of your silver dishes at the
banquet for you Paradise, for them the purga-
tory of the hopeless. Tender women, who would
turn aside lest they should crush a worm in
yonder garden-path, will dance over these un-
fortunates, and never spare a pang of pity for
them. And why are these prisoners in the
dungeons? For what offence?
Simply that they
have loved liberty, and would not bow the free
neck to the tyrant's foot. Ah, brother, there you
12
SAVONAROLA
have our Italy-the palace above, the dungeon
below-the gay clothing and the secret wound-
the colours of the rainbow made the embroidery
of corruption, all the outward splendour but the
iridescent film upon a pool of filth-poisonous,
dangerous,—oh, it sickens me, I cannot bear it!
ANTONIO.
Hush, hush, brother! you speak dangerously.
SAVONAROLA.
I speak truly. Truth is always dangerous in
bad times.
ANTONIO.
And for that reason only madmen speak it.
SAVONAROLA.
Rather say, for that reason only cowards refuse
to speak it.
ANTONIO.
Then you call me coward?
SAVONAROLA.
No, not I indeed. We have loved each other
too long and too well for that. Once, when we
were boys-do you remember?-you plucked me
from the river-flood when I was drowning,-
SAVONAROLA
13
that was no coward's act. But it is a different
thing to pluck a man from the path of duty-he
then becomes the coward who consents to his
salvation.
ANTONIO.
Well, well, I do not understand. You seem to
see things no one else dreams of seeing. Now I
never once thought of those dungeons of yours.
When I go to Este's court, I see only the glitter
of things and feel the joy of life.
SAVONAROLA.
Therefore go. It is no sin for you-you are
younger than I. But for me it would be a crime.
ANTONIO.
Farewell, then, brother!
SAVONAROLA.
[Aside.] Some men are born to feel, others to
enjoy. He is but a year younger than I, but in
the history of the heart a whole century may
separate twenty from one-and-twenty. Perhaps
he also will feel some day, my poor Antonio!
ANTONIO.
[Turning back.] Did you call me, brother?
14
SAVONAROLA
SAVONAROLA.
Only to say, God bless you, brother.
ANTONIO.
[Leaving the room.] He speaks almost like a
priest already. Well, we can't all be saints, or
there'd be no sinners, and then what would
become of the world! [Exit Antonio.]
[Savonarola sits down at his desk again, lights
candles in a silver sconce, and writes. Reads aloud :]
Let it not fail, this will that cleaves to truth,
Until the topmost crag of all be scaled;
Onward through pain and passion, toil and ruth,
Only be this not said, 'This man hath failed.'
[The door opens, and Felice Strozzi enters, dressed in
white and gold, with a red rose in her hair.]
SAVONAROLA.
[Rising.] You, Felice!
FELICE.
Yes; I stole away from the Palace. I so wanted
to see you. [Sinks into a chair. Savonarola kneels
by her side, and takes her hand.]
SAVONAROLA.
Carissima, you are faint.
SAVONAROLA
15
FELICE.
It is only with the joy of seeing you.
SAVONAROLA.
Do you not know, then, what has happened?
FELICE.
To you? Ah, why did I not see? You are
pale, your eyes are sad, you suffer——
To both of us.
SAVONAROLA.
FELICE.
I heard something a moment ago—a mere
word from my father-and I did not believe it.
He told me that you were going to be a priest !
It was too ridiculous, and I laughed! I knew
better than that!
It is true.
SAVONAROLA.
FELICE.
[Rising.] What! Oh, you do but jest! It can-
not be.
SAVONAROLA.
God pity us both, Felice, but it is no jest.
Alas! there is nothing else left for me.
}
i
16
SAVONAROLA
FELICE.
I do not understand. Nothing else left-I am
here, am I nothing?
SAVONAROLA.
No, no, you are far away-since yesterday.
Yesterday I asked you in marriage from Pietro
Strozzi-he refused me with anger and contempt.
The world was shattered for me in that moment.
I saw you fading from me like a star that grows
brighter as it sinks, and then in a moment has
disappeared for ever. O my God, I lean over the
edge of the world and see-only darkness!
FELICE.
[Softly.] Ah, but do not stars reappear if you
wait for them?
Yes, in heaven!
SAVONAROLA.
FELICE.
Ah, I see what you mean,—but my heaven is
here or it was yesterday. You gave me a rose
yesterday—it was a love-token, was it not? Ah,
you do not know a woman's heart.
When a
thing like that has happened to a woman, every-
thing is changed in her. She cannot go back
and be what she was before. When once the gate
SAVONAROLA
17
of the heart is opened to love, it cannot be closed
again at will.
SAVONAROLA.
Yes, that is true. I also feel it.
FELICE.
Yet you are about to lock the gate against me.
SAVONAROLA.
[Taking her in his arms.] Oh no, no, no, Felice!
I am not changed-it is only that things around
us are changed. Yesterday I said, 'Felice will be
mine in a year.' To-day another voice says, 'No,
not yet.
You must wait a lifetime for the world
beyond. You will belong to each other there,
and all your love will be the deeper for the
waiting.'
FELICE.
The world beyond! It is so very far away.
And oh the waiting.
SAVONAROLA.
No, not far away: just behind a curtain that
may lift at any moment. [A sound of guitars is
heard coming nearer.
Voices singing:]
The dawn begins to brighten.
B
18
SAVONAROLA
What is love indeed but this,
Wine of life and body's bread?
Red-ripe lips were made to kiss,
Man and maid were meant to wed.
SAVONAROLA.
They are returning from the Carnival. Dearest,
we must part. [A crowd of gaily-dressed youths and
maidens enter the room.
Felice steps back behind a
curtain.]
VOICES.
You wouldn't come to us, so we came to you.
SAVONAROLA.
[Sternly.] So I see. Perhaps you will now do
me the honour of leaving me.
A YOUTH.
[Mockingly.] Certainly, Sir Scholar! But don't
be angry. We are not to blame if we prefer music
and dancing to these dusty books of yours.
SAVONAROLA.
No, it is not your fault. We are as we are
made.
Then farewell.
THE YOUTH.
SAVONAROLA
19
SAVONAROLA.
[Aside.] A longer farewell than they know.
To-morrow Bologna-the monastery-the stern
path not one of these will ever tread. Yes, we
are as we are made. [They go out singing to the
music of the guitars:]
What is love indeed but this,
Wine of life and body's bread ?
Red-ripe lips were made to kiss,
Man and maid were meant to wed.
Foolish one, love while you may;
If you don't-hear what we say,
You'll regret it when you're dead.
Ha! Ha! Ha!
[Dying away in the distance.]
You'll regret it when you're dead!
Ha! Ha! Ha!
SAVONAROLA.
Felice!
FELICE.
I am here.
SAVONAROLA.
Go now, beloved. [Brokenly.] Time is very
short-life is soon over.
FELICE.
[Sobbing.] Ah, but the waiting, the waiting!
20
SAVONAROLA
SAVONAROLA.
And the curtain will lift some day.
FELICE.
And-when-the curtain lifts, shall I find you
there? [Exit Felice.]
SAVONAROLA.
She takes two broken hearts with her,-mine
and hers. It is on broken hearts God builds
His Kingdom. And now for that path which
leads up and up; past the little Calvary on the
hill; past the pale Christ upon the cross-the
path that leads I know not whither.
[Curtain falls.]
SAVONAROLA
21
ACT II
SCENE I
Nine years later. The Piazza della Signoria, Florence
Evening. A crowd is gathering. Venetian masts
are being erected, flags are flying, and preparations
are being made for the Carnival. In the foreground
two men, Baldassare and Cinquanti, are at work
erecting a mast.
BALDASSARE.
Gay doings, neighbour.
CINQUANTI.
Gay, you call them? Vile doings, say I.
BALDASSARE.
Pooh, pooh! you're a piagnone. You're one of
those sour chaps that can't take the world as God
made it, but must needs make it all over again on
a better pattern of your own.
CINQUANTI.
And what are you?
1
22
SAVONAROLA
BALDASSARE.
Just a poor devil with a stomach, a wife, and
four children. The first I have to fill, the second
to endure, the third to feed. Knowing these
things, I mind my own business, and leave the
world to look after itself.
A coward's creed !
CINQUANTI.
BALDASSARE.
Not at all-merely a wise man's. People who
wag their tongues in Florence nowaday get their
heads cut off; therefore I'm mum. I'll put you
a poser, my talkative friend. Tell me, what's all
the world to me when my wife's a widow?
CINQUANTI.
[Sourly.] If you'd heard the Frate preach you'd
be ashamed to talk like that.
BALDASSARE.
I hear your Frate? Not I. He's a dangerous
counsellor for poor men.
CINQUANTI.
And Lorenzo is a dangerous ruler for us all.
He's stolen that which a brave man ought to
SAVONAROLA
23
love better than himself—his liberty. He's
clothed in purple and fine linen like a god, and
that's why you and I have but one ragged shirt
to our backs.
BALDASSARE.
Hush, man! there are spies about. Moreover,
the Magnificent is coming. Don't you hear the
shouts and the singing? [A great procession comes
into sight. A number of youths, carrying torches,
march past, singing:]
Foolish ones, love while you may,
Night is love's great holiday.
Pilgrims true of love are we,
Love is earth's one deity:
See, to Love we bow the knee.
[All kneel in mock mirth. The people clap their
hands. Lorenzo, the Magnificent, accompanied by
Pico Mirandola, the poet, and a group of courtiers,
enters.]
LORENZO.
My people look happy-all but that one sour
rogue yonder [pointing to Cinquanti]. Yet there
are some who say that I am a bad ruler.
MIRANDOLA.
Why heed them? Dogs who bay the moon
are not supposed to understand her splendour.
24
SAVONAROLA
LORENZO.
An excellent image, my poet. Write it down,
lest you forget it. [To Cinquanti.] Come here,
Sir Rogue. You look as sour as a grape which
has never felt the sun. What hast thou to say
for thyself?
CINQUANTI.
I have nothing to complain of.
LORENZO.
Then thou hast missed a great happiness, for
no man is so truly happy as he who nurses a
grievance. That is why my people of Florence
are so happy. I provide them with so many
grievances.
MIRANDOLA.
Wittily said. Young Machiavelli would have
delighted in that saying.
LORENZO.
Machiavelli thinks ill of all princes in his
heart, and praises them with his tongue that we
may not suspect his heart. Nevertheless, I am
not a bad ruler-merely an indifferent wise one.
What sayest thou, Sir Rogue?
I say nothing.
CINQUANTI.
SAVONAROLA
25
LORENZO.
[Angrily.] God deliver me from the man who
says nothing! Your voluble rebel is amusing,
your silent one is dangerous. Out of my sight, or
I might be tempted to act unjustly.
CINQUANTI.
Well, I will speak, then. I am a piagnone, and
I'm proud of it. I love freedom, and there's no
freedom for a poor man-no, nor a rich neither—
in Florence to-day. Your Excellency rides us too
hard, and the saddle galls.
MIRANDOLA.
Don't pay any heed to him. He has been
listening to the Friar, and much sermon-hearing
hath made him mad.
VOICES FROM CROWD.
That was well spoken-' He rides us too hard.'
Ay, ay, we are taxed too much, without doubt.
LORENZO.
[Aside.] This grows interesting. This muddy,
million-headed beast, the people, presumes to
think. Now you shall see how little they are
capable of thought, and how a word can sway
them. [Turning to the crowd.]
Dork
26
SAVONAROLA
奮
​Good people, I, chosen of God and man
To bear this daily weight of government,
Ask you one question-duly answer it.
I found you, scattered as the drops of rain
Envious, fearful, impotent, and weak;
'Twas I combined you in a living force,
Made you the pride of Italy and the world,
-Yet you complain, 'He taxes us too much'!
I found you weltering in your littleness
The prey of all oppressors, faction-rent;
To-day Siena fears you, Rome herself
Beholds a rival, and far-off in France
Your greatness is discussed by mighty kings;
And yet you whine, 'He taxes us too much'!
Was your bread cheaper in the ancient days
When the sword dwelt among your harvest-
fields,
Or you the happier? Will you turn again
Like wallowing swine unto the native mire
From whence I pluckt you, setting you on high,
A starry name, fair, imperturbable,
And all to save a paltry coin or two,
The toll you pay for greatness and for power?
People of Florence, I, sprung from your loins,
Judge otherwise your temper, and discern
A larger destiny as yours and mine;
Wherefore, I pray you, let us hear no more
Of this poor cant-'He taxes us too much'!
SAVONAROLA
27
MIRANDOLA.
Demosthenes has spoken.
BALDASSARE.
Bravo! He speaks the truth.
are ruining us.
THE CROWD.
The piagnoni
Viva, Viva, Lorenzo! There's a Prince for you.
LORENZO.
[Smiling.] Fling them some gold. [Courtiers
scatter gold. To Mirandola.] You see, a word
turns them, as I said. Words govern people,
after all. Give me half a dozen right-sounding
phrases that shall run like wild-fire through the
people, and with them I will build an empire!
MIRANDOLA.
An empire on wild-fire!
LORENZO.
If you don't like the phrase, beat it into a
better form yourself-but there lies the truth.
[A solemn chant is heard in the distance. A pro-
cession of white-robed monks and children passes
across the square, chanting. In the midst is
Savonarola. The crowd hoots them.]
28
SAVONAROLA
SAVONAROLA.
[To his followers.] Peace, my children, peace.
We war not against flesh and blood, but against
principalities and powers, and spiritual wicked-
ness in high places. [The procession passes out of
sight, chanting. The crowd follow hooting.]
LORENZO.
A strange face, my Pico. So that is your Frate,
of whom I have heard so much. Jutting eye-
brows, fiery eyes, something half-wild, half-great
about him—a man to be feared, I fancy; therefore
a man to be conciliated.
MIRANDOLA.
Well, we all have our price nowaday. The
price of my loyalty is your love-I would every
man's price were as honestly come by.
LORENZO.
And what is this man's price, I wonder? Per-
haps before the night is over I shall find out.
[The procession passes out by the way leading past
the Uffizi Palace, the youths singing:]
Pilgrims true of love are we,
Love is earth's one deity:
See, to Love we bend the knee.
SAVONAROLA
29
[As Lorenzo's procession passes out, Savonarola's re-
enters. A group of Dominican monks comes first,
talking as they come.]
FRA BENEDETTO.
How calm he was when they hooted him!
FRA ENRICO.
Ay, he fears nothing.
FRA BENEDETTO.
Do you know what happened last night?
FRA ENRICO.
No. What was that?
FRA BENEDETTO.
The
Why, it was just at the end of the sermon-he
was preaching at Fiesole, you remember.
church was nearly dark, the people weeping, and
that great voice of his still thundering over them,
when suddenly he stopped. There were six men
in the crowd with naked daggers-he had seen
them. See,' he cried, 'the men sent to slay me.
Make room for them, I welcome them.' Then a
terrible cry broke from the crowd, and they would
have torn the six in pieces. 'Touch them not,'
said he; 'perchance they have wives and children,
30
SAVONAROLA
C
like the rest of you, and they know no better way
of earning bread than by murder.' Then the six
men hung their heads, and he came down the
pulpit steps and stood among them. If you have
ought to say to me, say it now,' he cried. Yet, be
it known to you, my death is not appointed to
take place to-night. I go out now, alone and
unattended-let him follow me to do me ill who
dares.' And so he passed through the crowd
smiling, and no one followed him, and those six
men fell upon their knees and wept.
FRA ENRICO.
Wonderful! wonderful! But he is more than
human! Legions of angels attend him.
FRA BENEDETTO.
So the people say. Some have even seen a
great archangel with purple wings stand behind
him as he preaches.
MONKS AND CHILDREN [chanting].
Deus noster refugium est.
[Savonarola enters the Piazzi, followed by procession
of monks and children; stands upon the steps of the
Loggia, and addresses them.]
SAVONAROLA
31
SAVONAROLA.
My children, ye have fallen on evil days,
Evil and sad. A vision I have seen
Of Christ's own Church, with body wounded sore,
Dishevelled hair, and miry, blood-stained feet;
Through a great desert breathlessly she fled,
Which, seeing, I wept, and bitterly I cried,
"Where is the light and pride of early days,
The saints that lit the world like burning lamps,
The martyrs, like bright sapphires, whose still
flame
Burned up to God? Where is the virgin robe
Unspotted from the world, which once she wore ?
Once there were chalices of wood that held
God's wine, and golden priests, pure, wise, and
good;
Now wooden prelates, golden chalices;
And in the desert she who was God's bride
Lies ravished, while they part her seamless robes
For gain, and yield her up to infamy.
But these things shall not be: the cup is full,
Arise, my children, for the hour is come
When these great wings that darken all the world
Shall broken be, and Cardinal and Pope,
And rulers who have long unjustly ruled,
Yea, even in this city they who ruled
In wickedness, shall fall, and straightway then
32
SAVONAROLA
God's Church from that great exile shall return
Fair as the moon, bright as the new risen sun,
And terrible as bannered armies are!
[While he is speaking, a group of courtiers have
entered the Piazzi. The monks fall back, and they
approach the Frate. Their spokesman, Giovanni
Pisano, addresses Savonarola.]
PISANO.
Prior, you exceed your duties.
SAVONAROLA.
It is impossible to exceed a duty. Duty de-
mands more than the best of us can give her.
PISANO.
Bandy no words with me. The duty of a
religious teacher is to be peaceable-hem-
humble-obey the powers,-the powers that be,
you know.
SAVONAROLA.
Ah, now I see. You are not up here of your-
self, you have been sent. You are trying to utter
somebody else's language-that is why your
speech stumbles. Lorenzo has sent you.
PISANO.
Possibly. And let me tell you that you beyond
SAVONAROLA
33
i
?
most men owe him obedience, for he is the patron
of the Monastery of which you are Prior.
SAVONAROLA.
And who made me Prior? Lorenzo or Almighty
God? Know this, I pay homage to one alone,
and he is not Lorenzo.
PISANO.
One does not expect manners from a monk.
It seems that one must not expect gratitude
either.
SAVONAROLA.
Gratitude! For what am I to be grateful?
Am I to be grateful that one man has it in his
power, and uses his power, to make this city
wicked? Florence was once great and free:
what is she now? The people live the life of
swine; justice is bought and sold; the honour
of your wives and daughters is not safe; you are
governed by a tyrant, and tyrant is the name of
one who lives a wicked life, more wicked than all
others, for he is the destroyer not alone of his own
soul, but of the souls of the people.
PISANO.
[Overawed.] Lorenzo has no quarrel with you.
C
34
SAVONAROLA
SAVONAROLA.
No; but I have a quarrel with him.
PISANO.
Others have said that. You may have observed
that they-they disappeared-soon after.
SAVONAROLA.
Yes; I have long observed that murder is the
trade of tyrants.
PISANO.
You misjudge the Prince. I assure you he
admires you, has a sincere regard for you-in
short, would be your friend.
SAVONAROLA.
Then let him give back the liberty which he
has stolen from the people of Florence.
PISANO.
[Jeeringly.] That is a high price for the friend-
ship of a poor Prior!
SAVONAROLA.
It is the only price I will accept. Now, sir, will
you leave me in peace, and know that I fear God,
and no one else?
SAVONAROLA
35
PISANO.
One moment, Frate. I have heard hints-hints
only, you understand-of a Cardinal's hat. Lor-
enzo is all-powerful-a word from him would go
far with the Holy Father-there are those who
would pay a Prince's ransom for that word.
SAVONAROLA.
[In angry scorn.] So you would bribe me! I
am to be bought and sold-as you have been. Do
you
think I did not count the cost before I under-
took the redemption of this city? Do you think
that I have not long ago foreseen the end-that I
shall die and be cut in pieces in order that my
principles may prevail? Know this, I ask nothing
better than martyrdom for the sake of this city
which I have loved so well. I expect it; I daily
pray to be strengthened to endure it. And as for
red hats-I want no red hat-the only red hat
that God will ever let me wear is the hat reddened
with my own blood!
PISANO.
Well, you are warned.
SAVONAROLA.
And let your Prince be warned too.
36
SAVONAROLA
PISANO.
Of what? Of whom? The eagle does not fear
the cuckoo. You may oust the sparrow from his
nest, but not the eagle. I discharge my mission
when I tell you plainly that if you are so political
in your preaching, Lorenzo will expel you from
the city.
SAVONAROLA.
My preaching is what I am. You like preaching
that never mentions any event later than the third
century-preaching that aims at nothing, and
always hits it. That is not my way.
PISANO.
Well, I warn you, in all gravity—in kindness, if
you will permit me—that Lorenzo will put you out
of the city.
SAVONAROLA.
I think not, Giovanni Pisano. I thank you for
your honesty, I accept your kindness. You come
of a free, proud race: well I know that in your
heart the pang of freedom is still felt. Go to the
Magnificent and tell him from me: he is the first
man in this city, I am but a poor, mean friar ;
nevertheless tell him from me, 'tis he who will
depart, I shall remain; I shall stop, he will go.
SAVONAROLA
37
FRA BENEDETTO.
Ah, he fears nothing. He speaks like a torrent.
FRA ENRICO.
No wonder. Don't you see the great purple-
winged archangel beside him while he speaks?
[The monks fall upon their knees, and chant, saying:]
Deus noster refugium est.
[Savonarola passes slowly down their ranks, say-
ing :]
SAVONAROLA.
Peace be with you! Pray, my children, pray for
this great city! The great wings shall be broken!
She shall put off the garments of her captivity.
She shall have joy for mourning. She shall arise,
fair as the morn, bright as the sun, and terrible as
an army with banners. [He passes slowly out of the
Piazza.]
.
PISANO.
There goes a man! [Exeunt omnes.]
38
SAVONAROLA
ACT III
SCENE I
A terrace of the Villa Careggi at Florence. Evening.
Machiavelli and Pisano talking earnestly. A group of
ladies and courtiers in the foreground. Pico Mirandola
leans against the balustrade and sings to his lute :
Had I the realm of Hungary,
Had I the gold of Almayne and of France,
Or Saint Sophia's golden treasury,
Such wealth could not my suit advance.
Had I the stars, and every star a pearl,
A chrysolite, a sapphire, or a beryl,
These could not buy my lady's lightest glance.
Bring Juno's robes, bring clothes of silk and vair,
Warm from sweet Dian's limbs, she will not care.
She covets not vain pomp of circumstance.
But that I love her,-lo, this humble plea
Draws down her soul, and gives unbought to me
The soft regard of her dear countenance.
FIRST LADY.
Well sung, Sir Poet; but methinks your lady
let herself go too cheap.
SAVONAROLA
39
SECOND LADY.
That's a common fault with women. Women
never know their price till they can no longer
obtain it.
MACHIAVELLI.
Not in Florence.
FIRST LADY.
Did not some wise man say long ago that the
price of a virtuous women was above rubies?
MACHIAVELLI.
And his meaning was obvious. It was diamonds
she wanted-the family diamonds by preference.
FIRST LADY.
What do you say to that comment on your
verse, Sir Poet?
MIRANDOLA.
Oh, it is the sort of comment we expect from
our Machiavelli! He knows the price of every-
thing-except truth.
FIRST LADY.
[Clapping her hands.] Mirandola is in love!
Wonder of wonders! With whom? Who can tell
me with whom?
40
SAVONAROLA
SECOND LADY.
Never mind Mirandola. A poet is never out of
love-or he ought not to be, if he would write
tolerable verses. Shall we dance? [Page-boys
with lutes, mandolins, and a viola da gamba appear.
The dance begins. Enter Lorenzo, walking feebly,
and leaning on the arm of Pisano.]
PISANO.
Shall I bid the dancing cease?
LORENZO.
Why should you? God forbid that I should
wish the world mirthless because I am unhappy.
PISANO.
[Aside.] I like not these signs of weakness in his
Highness. And there are omens, too,-last night
the great dome of the Reparata struck by lightning,
and the golden balls scattered! If there be a
God who guards the lives of princes, may He
forfend us!
LORENZO.
[Walking slowly along the terrace.] The sun sinks,
the little day is over. Pisano, did you ever notice
that our Greek poets never mention the setting
SAVONAROLA
41
sun? They feared to contemplate the end of
things. So do I. [Lorenzo departs, attended by
Pisano and Machiavelli. Felice Strozzi, deeply
veiled, enters by the opposite end of the terrace as
Lorenzo leaves it.]
MIRANDOLA.
'Tis she, the fair worshipper I have seen at the
friar's sermons. I know her by her delicate grace,
her noble air, that most dear lady whom my soul
adores. I will speak with her. [Approaches Felice.]
Lady, may one who loves you ask whom you
seek?
FELICE.
I seek the Magnificent. [The dancers leave the
terrace, laughing as they go. Mirandola and Felice
are left alone.]
MIRANDOLA.
I am Pico Mirandola, the humble friend of the
Magnificent. May I not serve you?
FELICE.
I am newly come from Ferrara, and know not
in this strange city whom I may trust. Sir, you
look honest, and even at Ferrara your poetry is
known. Will you serve one who has no reward
to give but thanks ?
"
42
SAVONAROLA
MIRANDOLA.
Love asks no reward, whatever it may hope.
Speak on.
FELICE.
Sir, I speak for one who is too proud to speak
for himself. Your master, and the ruler of this
city, hates him,-I know not why.
Last night—
O sir, it is a thing most horrible in the dark,
among the olives near Fiesole, they sought to kill
him. Tell the Magnificent he greatly errs: this
man he seeks to murder is his friend. Tell him
that this man prays daily for his soul: I have
heard him. Tell the Magnificent that this
enmity is unnatural and unworthy in so great a
Prince; and if God shall grant your words have
power, you will save Lorenzo from a shameful
crime, this city from most bitter strife, and me
from many fears.
MIRANDOLA.
Who is this man, for whom you speak?
FELICE.
One you know; one feared by bad men, loved
by good men, imitated by few-Savonarola!
MIRANDOLA.
The preaching Friar! Hath he bewitched you
too?
SAVONAROLA
43
FELICE.
Sir, I love him. I have loved him long.
MIRANDOLA.
But why should I save him, I, who loving you
must needs see a foe in one you love?
FELICE.
Because you are a poet, and a poet should in all
things be magnanimous. Because I am a woman,
and a true poet is sworn to the service of all
womanhood. Because you say you love me, and
if you loved me, my wishes should be yours. But
indeed, I think it is yourself you love, not me.
MIRANDOLA.
I am rebuked, justly.
FELICE.
I meant not to rebuke you. I did but speak
what seemed the truth.
MIRANDOLA.
So be it, your wishes shall be mine. But I
understand not this love of yours for one who
loves you not.
FELICE.
Ah, sir, it was long ago in Ferrara. We grew
44
SAVONAROLA
up side by side, and we parted. All the world
has changed since then, but not the love. The
root of that lies deep below all change.
MIRANDOLA.
We are alike in this, then, we each love the
unattainable.
FELICE.
And is not that a sort of bliss?
MIRANDOLA.
A bitter bliss. Lady, tell me your name, that I
may put it in my dreams.
FELICE.
Felice Strozzi. And your name is Pico Miran-
dola. I will put it in my prayers. [He kisses her
hand. She departs. The dancers return.]
MIRANDOLA.
Alas! why is it that we love best that which
is unattainable?
FIRST LADY.
See how Pico stands staring into the silence
and the sunset! Pico, what do you see?
MIRANDOLA.
Dreams, dreams, only dreams! [Enter Pisano
and Machiavelli in haste.]
SAVONAROLA
45
PISANO.
The Magnificent is worse. Ladies, there will be
no more music; depart as silently as you may.
Pico, haste thee, and find the learned Leone of
Spoleto, and bid him come quickly: it is life or
death. Alas, did I not fear the omens!
SCENE II
The villa of Lorenzo Medici at Careggi. A large room open-
ing on a terrace, from which a view of Florence and the
Valley of the Arno is visible. The moon is at full. From
the main room a smaller room opens, in which Lorenzo
lies asleep.
Pico Mirandola, Giovanni Pisano, and Niccolo
Machiavelli stand at the window opening on the terrace.
A Servant enters the room by the terrace.
SERVANT.
Signor, a man waits without who would see his
Highness.
MIRANDOLA.
He cannot see him. Who is the man in
Florence that does not know of the illness of
his Highness?
SERVANT.
So I told him, may it please you. But he says
that he brings with him that which might make a
sick man dance for joy.
46
SAVONAROLA
Who is the man?
PISANO.
SERVANT.
One Pietro Massolini, a cunning worker in
gems and gold whom his Highness hath often
employed.
MIRANDOLA.
Bring him to us. [Exit Servant.]
PISANO.
A strange illness this of his Highness!
MACHIAVELLI.
'Tis easily explained-this is a sickness of the
mind more than of the body. He is sick of the
Friar. If he had taken my advice, he would have
had the man strangled long ago, then there
would have been no sickness.
PISANO.
It is too late now. The Friar holds the hearts
of all the people in his hand.
MACHIAVELLI.
Precisely. And Lorenzo knows that he has
missed the hour to strike; hence mortification
of mind, then the thickening of the blood, and
SAVONAROLA
47
so the fever. If you would kill a snake, it must
be at the first blow; miss him, and it is the
snake's turn to show his fangs. [The Servant
returns, bringing with him Pietro Massolini. Pietro
uncovers a little silver casket, delicately wrought and
set with jewels. It is shaped like a tomb, supported
on four pillars.]
PISANO.
[Examining it.] Why, what is it?
MACHIAVELLI.
By my soul, an exquisite piece of art.
It is an omen.
MIRANDOLA.
PISANO AND MACHIAVELLI.
[Together.] Nay, nay, Pico, thou art too sad!
[To the man.] When did his Highness order this?
PIETRO MASSOLINI.
A week ago, Signor. He was very particular to
have it done with speed.
MIRANDOLA.
A week ago when his illness commenced: he
meant it as a model of his tomb. Ah it was a
sad mind that conceived this thought!
48
SAVONAROLA
MACHIAVELLI.
[To the man.] You may go. [The man goes,
leaving the casket in the hands of Pico Mirandola, who
sadly examines it.] Now, Pico, let us speak freely.
This is a matter of great moment, for, as affairs
now stand, if any ill should happen to his High-
ness, there is no knowing how things may go in
Florence. You have seen more of his Highness
than either of us-is he really ill?
MIRANDOLA.
Lorenzo
I speak in sad and simple truth.
knows that he is dying. I know it too, and I
love him.
PISANO.
Not dying! Surely you take a poet's licence
with what is no more than a touch of spring
fever.
’
MIRANDOLA.
"Tis more than that. Last night his hands
plucked the sheet, and thrice he said with
infinite sadness, Farewell, Farewell, Farewell!'
Toward morning he took my hand, and said very
softly, 'Pico, I hear the sound of a great river
rolling to the sea, and it is carrying me away!'
He spoke as one who is weary of life. The cold
dawn came into the room while he spoke, and then
SAVONAROLA
49
I saw how pinched his face had grown, and on his
mouth his soul seemed to hover, like a thin flame
ready to go out.
PISANO.
A sick man's dream-is that all?
MIRANDOLA.
It was no dream. His eyes were clear and
Moreover, he ended with a strange re-
calm.
quest.
MACHIAVELLI.
And what was that?
MIRANDOLA.
He wished that the Friar might come and
absolve him.
MACHIAVELLI.
[Eagerly.] Ah, now I see daylight. I have not
taught my Prince statecraft in vain. He would
use his sickness as a means of making peace with
this turbulent Friar.
MIRANDOLA.
It may be he thought of that-I do not know.
MACHIAVELLI.
If he did not think of it, we will do so. We
D
50
SAVONAROLA
will send for the Friar-he is tender-hearted, he
will come-and if the two can make terms, many
evils for us all may be averted.
MIRANDOLA.
He wished it--yes-let us do it. But my heart
misgives me. When the priest enters the house
the coffin is not far away.
MACHIAVELLI.
Pooh! Be a man. We have all found it vain
to work upon the Friar's fears: don't you see that
we can now work upon his tenderness? [Exit
Pisano and Machiavelli.]
MIRANDOLA.
They did not see what I saw when the cold,
grey dawn came into the room. [Takes up the
casket.]
Thus kings send envoys to reluctant kings
They would destroy; and envoys presents send.
First comes the gift, the envoy follows swift,
And then the king in solitary pride.
The embassage of Death already come,
Shall there not follow, silent, Death the King?
O my poor Prince, because I love thee most
I trace thy thought the quickest. Even now
Thou hear'st the footfall on the rounded world
SAVONAROLA
51
Of him who comes, pale, imperturbable,
Who, conquering thee, shall leave this house of
life
Desolate unto us for evermore !
[Puts down the casket. From the inner room Lorenzo
calls, Pico, my Pico!']
(
MIRANDOLA.
Ah, cursed be the crazy faculty which sets me
verse-making when my friend is dying. I come,
I come. [Passes into the inner room. Two Gentle-
men of the Court enter.]
FIRST GENT.
Is it true that the Prince has sent for the
Friar ?
SECOND GENT.
Yes, quite true. The messenger has just gone
to San Marco.
FIRST GENT.
The Friar won't come. You may depend upon
it, he'll suspect a trick.
SECOND GENT.
You don't know him. He has too much con-
fidence in himself to suspect peril-suspicion is
the safeguard of the weak. Beside, he is not the
t
52
SAVONAROLA
man to refuse a duty. I am from Ferrara; I knew
him years ago.
FIRST GENT.
What do you know about him?
SECOND GENT.
Oh, not much beyond what all men know!
Stay-there was one thing-it makes me laugh to
think of it, he was once in love. Felice-let me
see Felice Strozzi-that was her name, and he
couldn't get her, so he became religious. They
say she is in Florence, wears the veil, watches her
old lover from a distance-quite a romantic little
story, isn't it?
FIRST GENT.
Hush, the Prince is stirring. [Lorenzo enters,
leaning heavily on the arm of Pico Mirandola.
Walks slowly across the room, and sinks on a couch
near the window.]
LORENZO.
Ah-the heat grows there is thunder in the
air. What time is it?
MIRANDOLA.
Nine o'clock.
SAVONAROLA
53
LORENZO.
Night again,—oh, how I hate the night! The
hours rise like interminable hills, which I must
climb slowly, painfully. Wheel me to the window
-that is better,-now I can see the wideness of
the world. [To the Courtiers.] Gentlemen, you
may go. I thank you for your care of me. There
are times when I could almost think you loved
me-except that our wise Machiavelli says that
there is no such thing as love for princes. I ask
your pardon for inflicting on you an unconscion-
ably dull evening. [The two Gentlemen bow and
depart.] Now, my poet, come nearer. I want to
talk to you. Do you believe in the soul?
MIRANDOLA.
I did once-a long time ago.
LORENZO.
And do not now? Ah, my Pico, you have con-
fessed the malady which afflicts us all-we do not
believe. Yet sometimes I feel something like a
soul here [lays his hand on his breast]—a little bird
that flutters in its cage, and wants to be free.
MIRANDOLA.
[With piercing sadness.] Why talk of such things?
1
54
SAVONAROLA
LORENZO.
Because there are no others worth talking about
with a dying man. I had a mother-I want to
know where she is. I am going to leave you,
Pico: I want to know if you and I will ever meet
again. [Savonarola passes along the terrace in the
moonlight, wearing the white robes of his order. He
enters the room by the window, in silence. Stands still
a moment, then says, 'Peace be with you!']
LORENZO.
[In sudden terror.] All in white! A spirit!
See how the moonlight drips from him like bright
rain! It is a terrible thing to be sick, to stand on
the edge of the world and look over--you a little
bright raindrop, about to fall into the great
glittering sea!
SAVONAROLA.
Peace be with you!
LORENZO.
The little bird is
Ah, my mind wanders!
breaking through its cage! [Recovering himself.]
Why, it is no ghost-of course, there are no such
things. It is the Friar!
SAVONAROLA.
You sent for me?
SAVONAROLA
55
LORENZO.
Yes. Father, I am a dying man.
SAVONAROLA.
The dying never call in vain to the true priest.
LORENZO.
No; there's something in Mother Church after
all-but we won't discuss that. I think I have
not treated you well. I will be honest. I have
twice sought to kill you. If I recover, I shall try
to kill you again, and perhaps succeed. You can
go now if you like.
SAVONAROLA.
You tell me only that which I have long
known. It did not prevent my coming to you-it
will not prevent my staying.
LORENZO.
Ah, then, you understand? You will absolve
me?
SAVONAROLA.
[Coming close to Lorenzo.] Upon conditions.
What are they?
LORENZO.
56
SAVONAROLA
SAVONAROLA.
First, that you have a living faith in the
Church.
LORENZO.
Yes, I have that, I have always had it in my
heart. I have never broken with the Church.
SAVONAROLA.
Secondly, that you will give back all that which
you have unjustly taken away.
LORENZO.
Ah! [A long silence. Talking to himself.] The
dowries of the orphans-Cavalli's fortune—well,
there were State reasons. If Cavalli wasn't a
traitor, he would have been. Machiavelli says
that what would be theft in a citizen may be
patriotism in a ruler. I have not been a bad
ruler. Florence will judge me rightly when I am
gone. But a State must have money.
SAVONAROLA.
I wait.
LORENZO.
When I am gone-yes, that's the point. And
I am going where I cannot take my money-the
dark edge of the world-the great glittering sea-
SAVONAROLA
57
I wait.
SAVONAROLA.
LORENZO.
Well, then, yes.
But 'tis a hard condition.
Your God doesn't understand business-still, it
may be wise to humour Him. I consent. Now
proceed with your absolution, and let me die in
peace.
SAVONAROLA.
But I have not done yet. There is one more
condition.
LORENZO.
Oh, I weary of your conditions! 'Tis like a
priest to hunt a man's soul down, and extort all
he can on the edge of the grave.
SAVONAROLA.
Shall I go, then? [Turns to go.]
LORENZO.
No, no, no. I am very weak-be merciful-all
the honours of war are with you. A long while
ago you sent me a message-I remain, you depart.'
Well, I am departing. The victor can afford to
be magnanimous.
|
58
SAVONAROLA
SAVONAROLA.
[Softly.] God forbid that I should be unmerci-
ful. Believe me, I would give my soul for yours.
LORENZO.
[Touched.] I believe you-honest.
SAVONAROLA.
Prince, if we have been enemies, it was not of
my choosing. Ah, if we had but stood side by
side.
LORENZO.
'If' is a bell that tolls over the grave of lost
opportunity.
SAVONAROLA.
Side by side, toiling for this city; how free,
how great, how happy would this people have
been!
LORENZO.
It is too late. The bell is already tolling over
the grave of opportunity.
SAVONAROLA.
It is never too late to do right. That which
you have failed to do may yet be done; other
SAVONAROLA
59
hands may complete the work, but it will be your
work, and through long ages men will bless you,
and a great people will call you the father of their
liberties.
LORENZO.
The people-liberties!
SAVONAROLA.
Yes, that is the word. That is my last con-
dition. Restore to Florence the liberty which
you and your house have taken away.
LORENZO.
[Rising.] I have lived too long
if I live
longer my name will become a gibe. [Falls back
pale and faint.]
MIRANDOLA.
The Prince faints! [Savonarola stands with up-
lifted hand. Attendants come in. They support
Lorenzo, who once more struggles to his feet.]
SAVONAROLA.
I wait. A people implores-nay, claims-its
liberty. The holy saints lean out of heaven for
your answer.
'
60
SAVONAROLA
LORENZO.
'Tis not fair. The price is too great. Go, go.
SAVONAROLA.
Not without an answer.
LORENZO.
Take it, then. They have called you prophet,-
I also prophesy. Go back to your people—muddy
knaves they are,-and do you know what will
happen? I foresee it all. They will use you to
snatch the chestnut from the fire for them, and
then fling you upon the fire. They will praise you,
follow you to-day-crucify you to-morrow. Ah! I
know them, better than you. The day will come
when they will spit upon you-you, their deliverer,
and wish me, their tyrant, back. You can ride
the wild horse to-day: to-morrow it will trample
you beneath its cruel feet. As for me, I die as I
have lived, confessing nothing, retracting nothing,
yielding nothing.
SAVONAROLA.
And having learned nothing.
LORENZO.
Having learned how to die without fear of a
SAVONAROLA
61
יד
priest's stupid hell. [The morning breaks. Lorenzo
falls back. A bugle sounds.]
LORENZO.
[Faintly.] It is the morning. The little rain-
drop is sinking into the great sea.
MIRANDOLA.
The cold, grey dawn-ah! it drops like a veil
upon his face.
SAVONAROLA.
The morning of the People. I go to meet it!
[Curtain falls.]
:
62
SAVONAROLA
ACT IV
SCENE I
The Piazza della Signoria. Morning. A crowd is gathering.
In front of the Loggia is a small wooden pulpit. Round
the pulpit stand half a dozen Dominican monks.
[A group of people.]
FIRST SPEAKER.
So 'tis all over with him?
SECOND SPEAKER.
Ay, ay, so they say. He's excommunicate.
FIRST SPEAKER.
A good job, too, say I. Why, look you, he closed
my wine-shop, because he said men got drunk in
it, as though that were my fault. No more danc-
ing, says he; no more sport betwixt youth and
maid; no more warm ancient songs to put a little
fire into a man's veins. His veins are stiff with
ice, and he'd have us all as cold as he is.
SAVONAROLA
63
SECOND SPEAKER.
True; he's done us a great wrong.
FIRST SPEAKER.
How has he wronged you?
SECOND SPEAKER.
Why, he's set my wife against me. You re-
member the Bonfire of the Vanities?
FIRST SPEAKER.
Faith, who doesn't? A piece of tomfoolery if
ever there was one-burning up all the pretty
things as if the devil made 'em.
SECOND SPEAKER.
Just so: and what must my Julietta do but
throw all her fineries into the Friar's fire, and ever
since then she's been miserable. Not a wink o'
sleep can I get o' nights for her complaints. Says
'tis all my fault, too: firstly, because I shouldn't
ha' given them to her, and then she wouldn't ha'
had 'em; secondly, because I ought to ha' pre-
vented her from throwing 'em away, being in a
manner responsible for her doings; thirdly, because
I ought to ha' bought her some more, knowing
64
SAVONAROLA
1
how she loved 'em. There's a woman for
you-
a good enough woman, mind you, as God made
her, but a woman all atwist since she made the
Friar her god.
SECOND SPEAKER.
'Tis a common tale. My Catarina would ha'
done the same, but I locked up her clothes on the
day o' the Friar's fire, and left her nothing but a
bed-gown and my blessing. [They pass across the
Piazza.]
[Second group entering the Piazza.]
FIRST SPEAKER.
Will he preach, think you ?
SECOND SPEAKER.
Ay, he'll preach. The Holy Father may shut
him out of Paradise, but even he can't make the
Friar hold his tongue.
FIRST SPEAKER.
Well, you mark my words-the game's be-
ginning to go against him. Half the people hate
him already, and the other half begin to doubt
him. Wise men will make their peace with the
other side while there's time.
SAVONAROLA
65
SECOND SPEAKER.
Cowards, you mean-time-servers-trucklers-
men who think that because right and wrong are
words having the same number of letters, they
mean the same thing. Such am not I.
FIRST SPEAKER.
Nor I. But there's no word that was ever
coined worth the price of a man's head. 'Be not
righteous over much,'-there's sound Scripture for
you. 'Make peace with thine adversary while he
is yet a great way off,'-there is also a wise
Scripture for a poor man in strange times.
SECOND SPEAKER.
Ay, the devil can quote Scripture fast enough
when it suits him. But Scripture or no Scripture,
I don't forsake the Friar. [A bell begins to toll.]
FIRST SPEAKER.
Well, here he comes. We shall soon see what
he means to do, and how far 'tis safe to follow him.
[The Piazza fills with people. A procession of monks
enters, chanting. Savonarola walks in their midst
with head upon his breast, and folded hands. He
enters the wooden pulpit. Immediately beneath the
E
1
!
66
SAVONAROLA
pulpit stand Mirandola, Machiavelli, and Felice
Strozzi in a nun's garb.]
SAVONAROLA.
[Stretching out his hand.] Benedicat vos omni-
potens Deus! What... What's this?
MACHIAVELLI.
Look you, not a head is bent.
SAVONAROLA.
[Hesitates. Covers his face with his hands.] Bene-
dicat vos omnipotens Deus! [The crowd gaze at
him sullenly.] My God, my power is gone! I am
forsaken.
FELICE.
[Softly.] Be of good courage. He that endureth
to the end shall be saved.
SAVONAROLA.
Ah, the air spoke! Angels minister unto me!
VOICES FROM THE CROWD.
Apostate! Deceiver! Excommunicate!
SAVONAROLA.
Strengthen me, ye unseen powers! Make me
once more the trumpet of the lips of God!
SAVONAROLA
67
VOICES FROM THE CROWD.
Down with the Friar! Apostate! Deceiver!
Excommunicate!
SAVONAROLA.
Peace, my children. I have done you no
wrong. Will you not hear me?
VOICES.
Ay, hear him. Fair play, you know. [The
crowd grows silent.]
SAVONAROLA.
Florentines, ye whose city long ago
Chose Christ for King, hear His ambassador
Who loves you, even as ye love Christ your King.
Lo, day and night, in perils oft and tears,
These many years I serve you faithfully;
Can any gainsay this? Whom have I wronged?
What trust have I betrayed? Truly, I think
I may declare with God's apostle—I,
Unworthy though I be of any praise—
That no man's silver have I coveted,
And from the blood of all men I am pure.
Ay, ay, that's truth.
VOICES.
68
SAVONAROLA
SAVONAROLA.
Truth, is it? Yet your eyes unfriendly seem.
The faces that once wore a thousand smiles
Are frosted o'er with hardness and reproach.
VOICES.
A miracle! Show us a sign, O prophet!
SAVONAROLA.
My children, have ye not had many signs?
Have I not spoken that which came to pass?
I said long since the tyrant would depart—
God took him in his prime, and you were free;
That a great flood would come on Italy,
And lo! the flood of France roared at your gates.
Steep step by step, I climbed the difficult path
God set me, and a Voice at every step
Whispered of things to come. So was I strong,
So still am strong, for out of this dark cloud
That Voice still speaks of greater things to come,
And God's fire burns before me thro' the gloom.
MEN WHISPERING.
You hear? A fire burns before him. That
looks ill.
SAVONAROLA.
My children, you shall judge me. First of all,
SAVONAROLA
69
"Tis true that I am excommunicate!
[The people groan.]
Why 'excommunicate'-'tis but a word:
Are ye afraid of words? It alters nought
In the deep sum and essence of a man
That you misname him. I am what I am;
Behold me; am I altered in my form,
Is any tiniest atom of myself
Displaced, because some one since yesterday
Hath said, 'The Friar is excommunicate' ?
I do affirm this ban hath touched me not,
Nor can; God's very voice hath told me this.
VOICES IN CROWD.
Excommunicate!-Think of that. 'Tis a terrible
word. It means that the devil will have him.
SAVONAROLA.
A terrible word, in truth; it well might make
A great archangel sad to utter it.
But on unholy lips the emptiest word!
Know ye who spake it? Know ye Borgia?
Doth not all Italy know him infamous?
But God's vice-regent, he should be as God,
Pure-living, very loving, full of peace,
The fount that feeds all goodness thro' the world,
The light by which all darkness is rebuked.
This Borgia sits—a leper on God's throne,
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SAVONAROLA
A murderer sits-in Peter's holy chair;
His raiment smells of blood, and all his flesh
Is leper-rotten to its hideous core.
Therefore I say this Borgia is not Pope,
And not being Pope, his word is vain and void.
'Tis he, not I, who's excommunicate;
'Tis I, not he, thro' whom God breathes His word.
VOICES.
Yes, yes. Borgia can't be Pope. The Frate
says so. [The sky has darkened. A peal of thunder
is heard.]
SAVONAROLA.
In God's good time, my children, things will mend;
And meanwhile what is there for us to do
But follow truth, knowing all lies must fail,
And goodness, seeing God in good alone,
And cleave to liberty whate'er befall?
Yet faith in all things high is ever weak,
The weakness being proportioned to the height,
So frail are we; and therefore pitying us,
God gives us signs whereby our faith may live.
Behold a sign, then! See, the sky is dark,
Already thunder moans along the hills-
Ah, there the lightning flasht-the sword of God!
Thunder of God, behold I challenge thee!
If I have wrought unjustly, if by word
SAVONAROLA
71
Or deed against this people I have sinned,
Let God's wrath fall upon me in one flame,
Let His bolt smite me, riving me in twain,
Asit doth rive the too presumptuous oak
That crowns some proud and heaven-daring hill!
[The thunder rolls louder. The people groan.]
Hark, how the brazen wheels of God resound
Along the roads of heaven! He draweth nigh,
Dreadful in power, many-charioted,
With all the thousand thousand of His saints.
[A blaze of lightning.]
Now shall the doors eternal be lift up!
As in the far-off Apennines there bursts
The winter-flood, even so the mighty wave,
Crested with tossing helms and wheeling swords
Of angel and archangel, rank on rank
Rolled endless, fills the heavens, and earth dis-
mayed
Shudders with fear thro' all her heart immense.
[A burst of thunder.]
Still the bolt tarries! God, hast Thou not heard?
This people waits to see their prophet die;
It may be that for this great people's sake
It is expedient that one should die
That all the people perish not!
THE CROWD.
No, no, no!
72
SAVONAROLA
SAVONAROLA.
Behold the victim! See, the sacrifice,
Bound meek upon the altar, waits the fire!
Gladly I die, if He may be appeased
Who for your sins to-day is justly wroth!
[A great flash of lightning.]
THE CROWD,
He's gone! O our prophet! our prophet!
SAVONAROLA.
No, no! Unhurt your prophet still remains!
The fiery chariot is not yet; far off
It moves and fades into a little star.
Heaven's will be done! Yet, for a little while,
I teach you, love you, give my soul for yours;
O sinful people, will ye now obey?
THE CROWD.
We obey! Pray for us, O prophet! [The storm
begins to clear. A ray of sunlight streams upon his
face.]
MIRANDOLA.
Did you see it? On that craggy brow of his
the lightning sat like a crown.
SAVONAROLA
73
MACHIAVELLI.
I saw it. A supreme actor!
MIRANDOLA.
No, more than that. I half believe. See, the
people begin to kneel-I shall kneel with them.
I stand.
MACHIAVELLI.
MIRANDOLA.
Look at his face. It is the face of truth!
[Savonarola stands pale and exhausted, a ray of sun-
light falling on him.]
THE CROWD.
See, God answers him! A miracle, a miracle!
SAVONAROLA.
Benedicat vos omnipotens Deus!
[The whole crowd kneels. The monks begin to chant
'Deus noster refugium est.' The sunlight slowly
fills the Piazza.]
SAVONAROLA.
The Day of the People-see, it grows brighter
and brighter,—it is daybreak everywhere!
[Curtain falls.]
74
SAVONAROLA
SCENE II
The rose-garden at St. Mark's. The cloisters surround the
rose-garden. In the cloisters monks move to and fro, in
suppressed agitation. A gunshot is heard in the streets.
The moon, on the wane, lights one side of the garden.
Gradually the sounds in the street die away, and all is
quiet.
[Enter Felice Strozzi in a nun's garb.]
FELICE.
This is the place. Here it is he thinks, and
works, and prays. When he looks at the roses,
does he ever think of me, I wonder? Ah, how
I tremble! [4 bell strikes the midnight.] He
should be here soon-they told me that each
night, before he rests, he walks alone in the rose-
garden. I should like to think that he remembers
me when he walks among the roses. [Enter
Antonio Savonarola in a monk's garb. He does not
see Felice. Walks slowly up and down, sighing
deeply.]
FELICE.
[Aside.] His brother! So he also has obeyed
the call!
ANTONIO.
His star wanes. He does not see it, but I see
it. Alas, alas!
SAVONAROLA
75
FELICE.
[Stepping into moonlight.] Fra Antonio!
ANTONIO.
Who speaks? What, little sister, here, and at
midnight!
FELICE.
There is reason. I would see the Frate alone.
Will he come soon?
ANTONIO.
Who are you
?
FELICE.
A friend-one who loves him and would warn
him.
ANTONIO.
I think I know your voice.
FELICE.
He will know it still better. [Savonarola enters,
walking slowly, with head bent, and hands behind his
back.]
ANTONIO.
Brother, here is one who desires to see you
alone.
76
SAVONAROLA
SAVONAROLA.
Wherefore?
ANTONIO.
She comes to warn you.
SAVONAROLA.
I need no warnings. There is no human power
that can work me harm. Legions of angels
encompass me.
ANTONIO.
Yet there are many who seek your downfall.
You have not been alert of late as you once were
-you do not know how many there are who hate
you.
SAVONAROLA.
I have no need to know. In other days I
leaned too much upon the arm of flesh. I do so
no longer.
ANTONIO.
Ah, brother, your thoughts ever went beyond
mine. No doubt you are right—but my faith is
weak.
SAVONAROLA.
Pray for more faith. It is by faith we overcome
the world. But what of the messenger?
SAVONAROLA
77
ANTONIO.
Then you will see her? [Whispers.] Beware
she carries no dagger in the folds of her dress.
SAVONAROLA.
Let
I do not fear. Doubtless she is some poor soul
who finds it hard to overcome the world.
her come to me; perchance I may help her.
FRA BENEDETTO.
[Enters hastily.] Father, there is a crowd
gathering round the convent. They mean mis-
chief.
SAVONAROLA.
Go, my son. Do you not see that there is one
here who brings me the sorrows of her soul?
FRA BENEDETTO.
But, Father-
SAVONAROLA.
Go, go. [Antonio and Fra Benedetto withdraw.
Felice Strozzi approaches, and kneels to the Friar.]
FELICE.
Father, pray for me.
78
SAVONAROLA
SAVONAROLA.
[Starts.] Ah, I know that voice.
You did once.
FELICE.
SAVONAROLA.
Stand up.
Let me see your face,-who are
you?
FELICE.
I am a woman you once loved.
SAVONAROLA.
[Sternly.] I have loved but one woman. It
was long ago—and she is dead.
FELICE.
No; only waiting behind the curtain. When
the curtain lifts you will find her there.
Felice!
SAVONAROLA.
FELICE.
Yes; 'tis I. [He shrinks back.] Ah! do not
go from me. I come not as the
I come not as the woman you loved
—that woman is indeed long since dead. I come
SAVONAROLA
79
as your friend, your disciple, a woman who owes
her soul to you.
SAVONAROLA.
Speak quickly.
FELICE.
I speak in utter humbleness. I have news that
they will burn you. Your followers waver, your
enemies gather strength.
SAVONAROLA.
Fire cannot burn me. I have already challenged
a keener fire than man's,-it became as water at
my word.
FELICE.
O Father, listen! This time your foes are in
deadly earnest, and they are strong. Did not
the prophets flee that they might return again
victorious? Does not Scripture say that, per-
secuted in one city, the righteous should flee
to another? Flee to Bologna, Father-now,
to-night; to-morrow may be too late!
SAVONAROLA.
You tempt me. Is that a worthy act?
80
SAVONAROLA
!
FELICE.
No, I would succour you. I would defend you
from a great peril-because the woman who once
loved you is not really dead after all.
SAVONAROLA.
[Aside: softly.] Love, love-it is a great
mystery. Time dwindles to a point-all the
blue mornings at Ferrara rush back upon me
at that word.
FELICE.
[Aside.] Ah! if I could but work upon him
with some memory of the past! [Aloud.] Ferrara
-yes, we both love Ferrara. And one is there
who loves you-she is old, frail, dying-your
mother!
SAVONAROLA.
She will die in peace. She will not need her
son-holy saints will be near her. No, no, I will
not falter—I will tread my path to the end.
FELICE.
Old, frail, dying-a mother who waits for her
son to come and close her eyes.
SAVONAROLA
81
1
SAVONAROLA.
I cannot flee either to Bologna or Ferrara.
Lately God hath given me many signs. On the
day when I preached in the Piazza, I was ready
to resign all and go. I was weak; I felt that the
struggle was beyond me. But the air spoke to
me; the very air grew thick with angels, and I
saw their faces as one sees raindrops in a summer
shower, all glittering, and a thousand lips said,
'He that endureth to the end shall be saved.'
Shall he who has had so great a sign as this flee
because his foes grow arrogant?
FELICE.
[Aside.] Alas, alas! what have I done? 'Twas
I who said that!
SAVONAROLA.
I am raised above fear. Ever since those voices
spake I have known myself invincible.
FELICE.
[Aside.] What have I done? Doomed him
whom I would save! [Aloud.] Bless me, Father,
and let me go. I am but a weak woman-I have
played with forces too strong for me.
F
་
82
SAVONAROLA
Peace, my sister.
SAVONAROLA.
FELICE.
Say not 'sister.' Say 'Felice'-just once―very
softly, as you would say it over me if I were dead.
There can be no sin in that.
SAVONAROLA.
Peace, Felice. Pray for me; it is by prayer
we conquer. [Felice rises and walks slowly down the
rose-garden. Gunshots are again heard outside the
convent. She stops and looks back.]
FELICE.
I would have saved him. Ah, how noble he
looks-poor, brave, heroic, breaking heart!
SAVONAROLA.
Do not fear for me. I shall be safe.
FELICE.
He forgets me already-all his thought is with
himself and his work. When a man lets God into
his heart there's no room for any one else; but
whoever comes into the heart of a woman, she still
keeps the chief place for love. [She plucks a rose.]
SAVONAROLA
83
He gave me a rose once for love-has he quite
forgotten? [Sobs.]
SAVONAROLA.
[Looking back as he re-enters the cloisters.] Poor
Felice! I think I shall not die yet, but who
knows? When the darkness falls,-ah, if you
and I could go through it together-like little
children hand in hand-quite sure of one another.
[Enters cloisters.]
FELICE.
This is farewell—my heart tells me so. When
the curtain lifts, he'll find me there. And I will
have roses in my coffin-not lilies-they are too
cold-roses, roses, roses, [hysterically] all along the
road to God. [Exit. The confusion outside the con-
vent has increased. The march of many feet, and the
beating of a drum is heard. The moon has dis-
appeared. Torchlight is reflected on the dark sky.
The monks begin to throng into the cloisters, some of
them carrying candles.]
THE MONKS.
Something terrible is about to happen. Where
is the Father?
SAVONAROLA.
[Entering the rose-garden, with a crucifix in his
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SAVONAROLA
1
T
hand.] Peace, my children.
I feel moved to
speak to you to-night about those things that
are dearest to our souls. Gather round me, my
children.
A YOUNG MONK.
Father, the streets are in tumult.
SAVONAROLA.
It will pass, it will pass. Not yet hath the day
come for the wicked to wreak their will on me:
sed adhuc modicum tempus vobiscum sum. Offences
must needs come; did I not long since prophesy
that the sky should be darkened? Behold, did
I not say that the heavens would rain fire and
flames, stones and rocks? Therefore, like a good
captain, I will fight even unto the death. [Shouts
are heard without, and blows upon the doors of the
convent.]
FRA BENEDETTO.
[Rushing in, a smoking gun in his hand.] Father,
flee, you are betrayed.
SAVONAROLA.
'Tis but a street tumult. I have lived through
worse. Fra Benedetto, put down those weapons
SAVONAROLA
85
and take up
the cross. I have never taught that
my brethren should shed blood, even though it be
the blood of the wicked.
FRA BENEDETTO.
I. submit.
SAVONAROLA.
A
Let us return to our discourse. My beloved
children, I know not what things await me, but
hereby I affirm once more the truth of my
doctrines. I have spoken no lie: no, nor acted
one; my life is known- [Fresh outcries.
wounded monk, Fra Enrico, is carried in, and laid
at the feet of Savonarola.] Blood, blood-this is
terrible. I must put an end to this; I will give
myself up to the people. When they see me,
they will relent. They will say, 'Behold one
who wrought us only good and no evil,' and I
shall pass through them unhurt.
FRA BENEDETTO.
Father, they will kill you. I am not unlike
you let me go forth to them in your name.
They will perchance be deceived, and this
crowning honour shall be mine, that I may
die instead of you.
i
86
SAVONAROLA
SAVONAROLA.
Ah, brother, if one must die, I am riper for
death than thou! Yet hereafter it shall be said
thy love was passing the love of woman.
sheep must not die for the shepherd.
the flock is scattered, wounded—
But the
Already
[The gates of
the convent are beaten in. The mob rushes into the
rose-garden, bearing torches. The mace-bearers of the
Signory advance.] Whom do ye seek?
A traitor.
MACE-BEARER.
SAVONAROLA.
Then there is none such here. We be all good
men and true, who love this city, and her people,
and her liberties.
MACE-BEARER.
The Signory demands your presence. They
offer you safe conduct.
FRA BENEDETTO.
Father, trust them not. They mean to slay
you. Let us die where we stand. The tender
SAVONAROLA
87
mercies of the wicked are cruel. [Takes up his
sword and falls upon the mob.]
THE MOB.
Down with him! Hell to the Friar! Hell to
all traitors! [They seize Savonarola, and tie his
hands behind him.]
A CITIZEN.
[Striking him behind.] Fool of a prophet,
prophesy who smote thee!
ANOTHER CITIZEN.
[Thrusting a torch in his face.] Here's a light
for thee, thou light of the world!
THE MOB:
Cut the liar's tongue out!
He's our prisoner, not yours.
SAVONAROLA.
He deceived us!
Alas! What have I done to be so hated ?
May I speak?
MACE-BEARER.
Not to the people. [Aside.] He hath bewitched
them too often-he may do so again.
SAVONAROLA.
Then to my brethren? That is my right.
88
SAVONAROLA
MACE-BEARER.
Be quick, then. The whole city roars like a
sea. In five minutes not even the devil himself,
whom thou servest, could give thee safe conduct.
SAVONAROLA.
Brethren, it seems the parting hour has come.
Brethren, with whom in such sweet love I lived
These many years-such love-[pauses].
Why, what's this? The air is all on fire!
The walls of the world are falling in!
Long since I saw in dreams myself as one
Whirled seaward in a tiny skiff, alone,
And far from shore, alone-alone-[pauses].
No, that's not what I meant to say. Thoughts
come to me in flashes-they stream past me like
falling stars. I must begin again.
Brethren, with whom in such sweet love I lived
These many years—such love—[pauses].
Why, what's this? The air is all on fire!
The walls of the world are falling in!
[Staggers back.]
FRA BENEDETTO.
Cowards! You have killed him. Hold him,
brothers, he falls! [The monks support him. He
waves his hand and goes on:]
SAVONAROLA
89
SAVONAROLA.
All things I built are falling, ruined all !
I saw them fall as dust upon the sea!
Then moved the everlasting gates of hell,
On fiery hinges, each hinge shrieking woe,
Woe, woe, unutterable woe!
THE MONKS.
Hark! he prophesies!
SAVONAROLA.
And out there passed, terrific, one whose wings
Were darkness, and all nations groped in vain
For light, and heard, enormous, on the hissing air
The beating of those evil, monstrous wings!
O Florence, Florence, death hangs over thee,
Pestilence, famine, woe!
MACE-BEARER.
He raves! Drag him away!
THE MOB.
He's mad. Smite him on the mouth, some one.
[The monks close round him.]
SAVONAROLA.
[Staring at the torchlight reflected in the sky.] The
90
SAVONAROLA
dawn is blood-red! The day of the people comes
in blood!
FRA BENEDETTO.
Father, speak to us!
SAVONAROLA.
[Growing calmer.] What? Was I not speaking?
I think I fainted for a moment-something in my
brain broke. These cords cut my wrist. I think
some one struck me. I fear I am not used to
pain.
THE MONKS.
Help him, O blessed saints!
SAVONAROLA.
Brothers, forgive me if I spoke amiss. My
tongue grows faltering: I am very weak. I am
bereft of all things—even speech.
THE MONKS.
Bless us, O Father!
SAVONAROLA.
I have no hands to bless you-they are bound;
Scarce eyes to see you—they are blind with tears:
The heart that loves you-this is all that's left.
I go away, and yet a little time
And no more shall ye look upon my face;
SAVONAROLA
91
Love one another, dwell in unity,
Follow things pure and lovely, just and true,
And count death gain. This is the sum of life.
MACE-BEARER.
Art done? We can't wait all night.
SAVONAROLA.
Remember me: pray hourly for my soul.
I sought great things. If I too greatly dared,
The too presumptuous oak is rived at length.
Yet fear not, ye who love me,-all is well.
From this fallen oak a million shoots shall spring,
And each shall strike its root out deep and wide:
But lo, the wicked shall not prosper; they
Shall wither away, accursed in root and branch!
MACE-BEARER.
Come, let us have no more cant. [To the crowd.]
Stand back.
SAVONAROLA.
I am ready. [During Savonarola's speech, Fra
Enrico has been supported on the knee of one of the
monks, who holds a crucifix before the dying man.]
FRA BENEDETTO.
He's dead.
92
SAVONAROLA
SAVONAROLA.
Fra Enrico dead! This unmans me quite. [To
the crowd.] See what you have done. Look on
He was but a youth; are you not
have slain one so young? Ah, you
that blood.
ashamed to
fall back!
You dare not look on these dead eyes !
Let six of the brethren take up the body of our
brother. It shall be carried before me to the
Signory, that the rulers of this city may see the
wrong they do.
MACE-BEARER.
'Tis you alone, Fra Savonarola, who are de-
manded at the Signory. These brethren cannot
come.
SAVONAROLA.
They shall come. I command it. I have the
right to their obedience.
MACE-BEARER.
Not to ours.
SAVONAROLA.
To yours also—in the name of the dead.
THE MONKS.
Let us all go with you.
SAVONAROLA
93
SAVONAROLA,
Nay; ye shall remain and pray.
THE MONKS.
O our brother, our brother! [Bending over the
corpse.]
SAVONAROLA.
Weep not for the dead, neither lament him.
Weep rather for all that is dying in Florence to-
night. [Exit Savonarola attended by mace-bearers.
The corpse of Enrico is carried before him by six
monks. The crowd stands awed as he passes. In
distant chapel of the Monastery soft organ music is
heard, mingled with the roar of the streets.]
SCENE III
The Piazza della Signoria. The dawn is beginning to break, and
the light grows as the scene proceeds. Three platforms are
erected, one for the Bishop of Vasona and the ecclesiastics,
one for the Apostolic Commissioners, one for the Gonfalier
and the Eight. In front of these is the scaffold, bearing
a gibbet resembling a cross, with combustibles piled round
it. Soldiers guard the scaffold.
FIRST SOLDIER.
They say he has confessed.
94
SAVONAROLA
SECOND SOLDIER.
They say' is a mouth that always lies.
FIRST SOLDIER.
I know not, and care less. Shooting monks
is not to my fancy-'tis like shooting kittens.
[Yawns.] Nor burning them, neither. 'Tis a cruel
death, is burning.
SECOND SOLDIER.
The Frate is not burned yet. You'll see he'll
work a miracle. They say he is a wizard, and can
make flames dance in and out between his legs
without touching him, as you and I would make
a dog.
FIRST SOLDIER.
Ah, but 'They say' is a mouth that always lies.
You forgot that, didn't you? [Machiavelli, Gio-
vanni Pisano, and several former Courtiers of Lorenzo
enter the Piazza.]
MACHIAVELLI.
So the reign of tomfoolery is about to end at
last, gentlemen-as it should-in smoke!
PISANO.
You speak too bitterly. Is there nothing you
believe in ?
SAVONAROLA
95
1
MACHIAVELLI.
Certainly, my Giovanni. I believe most heartily
in whips for rogues, the rack for knaves, and
prisons for fools-for wise men like ourselves the
grace to see on which side our bread is buttered.
PISANO.
Sometimes wiser men than you and I find their
way to prison. Just now in Florence the best men
are in prison, and the worst men have put them
there.
MACHIAVELLI.
Ah, my Giovanni, will you never learn that good
and bad are words of no meaning? And as to
folly and wisdom, why, he is always
succeeds, he is always a fool who fails.
of girls enters the Piazza.]
wise who
[4 group
FIRST GIRL.
Come along, let us get a good place for the
burning. It isn't every day they roast a Friar in
Florence.
SECOND GIRL.
I don't half like it. I never saw a man die.
Will he cry out much, do you think?
96
SAVONAROLA
FIRST GIRL.
Oh, he'll cry out, never fear! That's the fun
of the thing, you know.
MACHIAVELLI.
You hear those wild cats of the gutter,
Giovanni? And this is human nature! These
girls doubtless heard your Friar preach: they
come with an infinitely greater zest to see him
burn. And your Friar thought he could discern
a soul in this human mud which dances and
gesticulates over his death! Body of Bacchus,
what a fool he was!
PISANO.
Yet a noble folly-nobler than your wisdom, I
think. It is only a great man who hopes much
of human nature. [Pico Mirandola enters.]
MACCHIAVELLI.
What, you here, my Pico? A poet should turn
away his eyes from horror.
MIRANDOLA.
A poet should seek to look on goodness,
especially when there is so little of it, and what
there is, is dying.
SAVONAROLA
97
MACHIAVELLI.
Why, you speak like a piagnone.
MIRANDOLA.
It is true. My eyes are opened at last. We
have had a saint among us, and to-day we burn
him. Do you know how they have tortured him ?
Yet he smiled upon them, he forgave them. ‘I
hoped to do great things for Italy and beyond it
-that was the one confession he would make.
He lies asleep yonder [pointing to the Signory] in
that dungeon—and would I could know a sleep as
pure and sweet as his. He has conquered us all.
A century hence the world will see him as the one
great man of our time, and you and I will be for-
gotten or despised.
MACHIAVELLI.
[Turning away.] Pooh! pooh! Centuries
hence' are not in my line. Blue air that I can
breathe is better than all the sunlight that may
fall upon my grave. [Four brethren of the Miseri-
cordia enter the Piazza, bearing a bier. The crowd
begins to fill the Piazza.]
PISANO.
Who goes there? [The procession stops.]
G
98
SAVONAROLA
A BROTHER OF THE MISERICORDIA.
The dead. Do not delay us. The crowd
gathers. In a few moments we shall not be
able to cross the Piazza.
MIRANDOLA.
Whose body do you bear?
THE BROTHER.
A woman's. She died last night. She was a
holy woman who lived among the poor. They say
she came from Ferrara.
A COURTIER.
Ferrara! I also come from Ferrara. Let me
see her face. [They put down the bier.] It is
Felice Strozzi!
MIRANDOLA.
She looks very calm. Her mouth smiles as
though it would speak. She looks as one who
has her wish.
COURTIER.
Perhaps she has. This is the woman whom
they say the Friar loved.
THE BROTHER.
Alas, the Piazza is crowded! We cannot pass
SAVONAROLA
99
MIRANDOLA.
Let the bier rest where it is. If indeed she
loved him, no one has so great a right to be here
as she. [A bell begins to toll. Trumpets sound.
The Bishop, followed by a train of ecclesiastics, mounts
the platform, the Apostolic Commissioners theirs, the
Gonfalier and the Eight theirs.]
ma
VOICES IN THE CROWD.
He's coming!
FIRST GIRL.
I can see him! Oh, how sad and pale he looks!
SECOND GIRL.
I'm afraid. I do hope he won't cry out when
they hurt him.
THIRD GIRL.
When my mother was dying he absolved her.
Oh, I wish I hadn't come! It doesn't seem right.
[Weeps.]
MIRANDOLA.
[To Machiavelli.] So it seems your wild cats of
the gutter have hearts after all! [Savonarola,
accompanied by the two brethren who are to die with
him, comes into sight. He moves slowly across the
square; stops at the bier of Felice Strozzi.]
+
100
SAVONAROLA
MIRANDOLA.
Frate, forgive us. We know not what we do.
SAVONAROLA.
[In a low voice, as he moves on.] Peace, peace be
with you all. Felice-the curtain-she has kept
her word-she will be there! [In a louder voice.]
Peace be with you all!
FIRST GIRL.
What does he say?
SECOND GIRL.
He said 'Felice.' It must mean that he is happy.
He blesses us.
FIRST GIRL.
Should we kneel?
MIRANDOLA.
Yes, kneel, all of you. If you can weep, weep
now. Your liberty is dying with him. [Mirandola
kneels beside the bier. Many of the crowd kneel also.
Savonarola moves on, halting before the platform of the
Bishop.]
THE BISHOP OF VASONA.
[Touching him on the arm.] So I separate thee
Maou
SAVONAROLA
101
47
from the Church militant and from the Church
triumphant.
SAVONAROLA.
From the Church militant indeed; not from
the Church triumphant. That is more than you
can do.
THE BISHOP.
[In a low voice.] Ah, how right he is! The
final triumph is always with him who endures
the injury, not with him who inflicts it. [Sits
down, covering his face with his hands. Savonarola
mounts the scaffold. He stands perfectly silent, looking
at the crowd.]
THE CROWD.
A miracle! A miracle! Work a miracle, O
prophet!
SAVONAROLA.
[Softly.] No, no, my children. Only one miracle
is left, the last sweet miracle of love-rest-death!
The day of the people-it will come-it hath
already dawned. I shall see it, but not nigh, I
shall behold it, but afar off.
THE GONFALIER.
Light the torches. [Aside.] It will never do to
102
SAVONAROLA
let him speak. [The torches are lit. The bell ceases
to toll. The sun shines out, falling full upon his face.]
SAVONAROLA.
O Florence, what hast thou done to-day!
[Trumpets sound far off.]
[The curtain falls.]
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at the Edinburgh University Press

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