The Borgias | Page 3

Commandante, to knock at the door of a Don Giovanni,
and in the midst of feast and orgy to announce that it is even now the
moment to begin to think of Heaven. He had been born at Ferrara,

whither his family, one of the most illustrious of Padua, had been called
by Niccolo, Marchese d'Este, and at the age of twenty-three, summoned
by an irresistible vocation, had fled from his father's house, and had
taken the vows in the cloister of Dominican monks at Florence. There,
where he was appointed by his superiors to give lessons in philosophy,
the young novice had from the first to battle against the defects of a
voice that was both harsh and weak, a defective pronunciation, and
above all, the depression of his physical powers, exhausted as they
were by too severe abstinence.
Savonarala from that time condemned himself to the most absolute
seclusion, and disappeared in the depths of his convent, as if the slab of
his tomb had already fallen over him. There, kneeling on the flags,
praying unceasingly before a wooden crucifix, fevered by vigils and
penances, he soon passed out of contemplation into ecstasy, and began
to feel in himself that inward prophetic impulse which summoned him
to preach the reformation of the Church.
Nevertheless, the reformation of Savonarola, more reverential than
Luther's, which followed about five-and-twenty years later, respected
the thing while attacking the man, and had as its aim the altering of
teaching that was human, not faith that was of God. He did not work,
like the German monk, by reasoning, but by enthusiasm. With him
logic always gave way before inspiration: he was not a theologian, but
a prophet. Yet, although hitherto he had bowed his head before the
authority of the Church, he had already raised it against the temporal
power. To him religion and liberty appeared as two virgins equally
sacred; so that, in his view, Lorenzo in subjugating the one was as
culpable as Pope Innocent VIII in dishonouring the other. The result of
this was that, so long as Lorenzo lived in riches, happiness, and
magnificence, Savonarola had never been willing, whatever entreaties
were made, to sanction by his presence a power which he considered
illegitimate. But Lorenzo on his deathbed sent for him, and that was
another matter. The austere preacher set forth at once, bareheaded and
barefoot, hoping to save not only the soul of the dying man but also the
liberty of the republic.
Lorenzo, as we have said, was awaiting the arrival of Savonarola with
an impatience mixed with uneasiness; so that, when he heard the sound
of his steps, his pale face took a yet more deathlike tinge, while at the

same time he raised himself on his elbow and ordered his three friends
to go away. They obeyed at once, and scarcely had they left by one
door than the curtain of the other was raised, and the monk, pale,
immovable, solemn, appeared on the threshold. When he perceived him,
Lorenzo dei Medici, reading in his marble brow the inflexibility of a
statue, fell back on his bed, breathing a sigh so profound that one might
have supposed it was his last.
The monk glanced round the room as though to assure himself that he
was really alone with the dying man; then he advanced with a slow and
solemn step towards the bed. Lorenzo watched his approach with terror;
then, when he was close beside him, he cried:
"O my father, I have been a very great sinner!"
"The mercy of God is infinite," replied the monk; "and I come into your
presence laden with the divine mercy."
"You believe, then, that God will forgive my sins?" cried the dying
man, renewing his hope as he heard from the lips of the monk such
unexpected words.
"Your sins and also your crimes, God will forgive them all," replied
Savonarola. "God will forgive your vanities, your adulterous pleasures,
your obscene festivals; so much for your sins. God will forgive you for
promising two thousand florins reward to the man who should bring
you the head of Dietisalvi, Nerone Nigi, Angelo Antinori, Niccalo
Soderini, and twice the money if they were handed over alive; God will
forgive you for dooming to the scaffold or the gibbet the son of Papi
Orlandi, Francesco di Brisighella, Bernardo Nardi, Jacopo Frescobaldi,
Amoretto Baldovinetti, Pietro Balducci, Bernardo di Banding,
Francesco Frescobaldi, and more than three hundred others whose
names were none the less dear to Florence because they were less
renowned; so much far your crimes." And at each of these names which
Savonarala pronounced slowly, his eyes fixed on the dying man, he
replied with a groan which proved the monk's memory to be only too
true. Then at last, when