Chapter XIII: The Call From the North

A week at the fashionable waters of Baden, an easy trip across the Alps through Basel, Lucerne, Lugano; then again the Italian speech, the Italian color, the Italian sky.

Two weeks at Milan, a month in the palace of the lordly Contarini’s at Venice, with the plashing oars of the gondola ever in my ears, with Marianna divinely radiant ever at my side,--and the Harzland, Ilsa, and Martin the friar, all seemed exceeding far away. With a pleasure rekindled by a year’s absence I plunged back into the old voluptuous life. Delightful indeed to hear again the tinkle of the castinets, to taste the delicate Chianti and Frascati, to wake in the morning, to fall asleep in the evening, with the renewed vow, “to-day, to-morrow, forever, let black care hide his face. My life is to enjoy.”

Yet even in Venice I heard rumors of the insolent disturber at Wittenberg. I heard his case discussed during a charming supper at the Doge’s palace. Everybody agreed he was a bold, sincere man, probably of considerable piety and attacking undoubted evils.

“But,” spoke the sagacious Senator Morosini, stroking his long gray beard, as he wound up the conversation, “what will you? On the Rialto they tell me his propaganda has already cost the Vatican four hundred thousand ducats. He must be silenced speedily,--if necessary by stake and faggots. However, if His Holiness is wise, he will recall the very disagreeable commotions following the execution of Hus the Bohemian heretic. The safest way to silence this fellow is by a bishopric.”

“There is no gag like a mitre,” nodded the Spanish Ducca de Obispo. “I hear Rome is likely to use it.”

As for me, I sat wisely in silence, by no means confident the proffer of a bishopric would prove so efficacious as these two experienced and noble gentlemen imagined.

The glittering revels and water parties, however, the excursions to Chiogia, the fêtes on the Grand Canal, the masques on the Piazza di San Marco,--all these at length palled upon Marianna and upon me. We were away to our own little kingdom--Palaestro.

What was Palaestro? The antithesis of the Regenstein, a pocket among the green Apennines, a clump of gray moss-clustered towers, and overhead the southern sky. Before the towers nestled the little village, tall balconied houses of dirty pink stucco, and dignified beggars dozing in the shade, waking only to whine their “caritas!” for a soldo. At night far down the valley pealed the silver call of the bell of the little brown church. By day the sun sprinkled his brightness over the fragrant orchards, lusty chestnut groves, and twisted oaks. Behind the old gray towers rose the newer palazzo of the lords of Palaestro,--a vast mansion, stately with Romanesque windows, Corinthian columns, and foliate sculpture. Pupils of Donatello had carved the marbles; Signor Andrea del Sarto had painted a _Pieta_ which looked down upon the great state gallery. Venetian glass, Syrian carpets, cases of antique medallions, vast quantities of silver plate,--these were a few of the things a stranger would have noted instantly. Our spacious halls and sunny logias looked abroad upon the old Etruscan country, and in them we could walk interminably, and take our ease. If one would turn Epicurean, Palaestro was indeed a retreat for philosophers!

Thither we came by way of Ferrara, after enjoying hospitality at the court of its prince. His Eminence of Forli travelled in vast state in a carriage entirely white, with silver used in place of iron down to the smallest rail and a harness of silver likewise. I wished my own equipage to correspond, and I fear I made many drafts on my Venetian bankers in those days,--both for myself and for Madonna, who seemed daily more beautiful as she neared her native Southland.

“Here is a fair binding for a rose,” I remember crying, as I flung around her neck a chain of Indian pearls straight from a Portuguese out of Calicut; and she took them with a gracious condescension, as if all I gave to her was but her due.

The deft servants my kinsmen had sent from Florence soon put the palace in excellent order, and we made haste to summon certain old boon companions from Rome. Signor Campelli the distinguished Hellenist came, a bishop or two famous for wit, Latinity, and judgment of good cookery, an artist aiding Raffaello, and our particular friend Cardinal Rocca, as well as sundry ladies of whose charms I will not particularize. Our heads were full of Boccaccio’s _Decamerone_, and surely never was there a better place to imitate the luxurious revels of Pampinea, Pamfilo, and their peers. My _major domus_ was an adept in organizing entertainments. Every day we had new dishes, new excursions, new fêtes.

We organized classical revels after the manner of Theocritus, and far up among the rocks above the palazzo we found the ruins of an ancient temple, three shivered columns, and a great rock whereon a millennium and more ago they had burned the sacrifice. Here one day we imitated the rites of Pan, slaying a young kid, crowning ourselves with fern and fennel, and shouting a mad “Evoë!” as we danced like Grecian mænads.

“In truth, our worship was more interesting,” said one of the ladies, as with blithe steps we descended the mountain, “than what the Church teaches to-day. Not that I am a heretic,” she crossed herself--“but you understand--”

“Assuredly, noble Signora,” spoke Signor Campelli, “only you must not dream that the true Hellenist is hostile to the Church. Ours is the truest piety. Has not our incomparable Marsilio Ficino established that Zoroaster, Socrates, and Vergil are but prophets to prove the divinity of Christ? Believe me, our cult to-day was as truly religious as a Christian mass, only its significance is of course hid from the unlearned.”

“Pope Pius II made a true remark,” added Rocca at my elbow. “He said, ‘Even if Christianity were not confirmed by miracles, still it ought to be accepted on account of its morality.’ The Church naturally shows one face to the multitude, another to the wise and initiated.”

* * * * *

Unbridled indeed had been my joy that day; and yet in the evening, as I stood in my chamber, overlooking the starlit valley, the great mansion still, the guests all retired, I experienced one of the most marked revulsions of feeling it has ever been my fate to know.

I saw again as in a dream--yet never was I more awake--the little room in the Augustinean convent at Wittenberg, the green tile stove, the books and papers on the table, and beside me was the deep-voiced friar with his wonderful eyes, speaking to me of duty and righteousness, making the chamber ring with the grave melody of the Psalter, using arguments no pagan could refute, and speaking as though dweller in a world no pagan could enter. And I almost heard again his word as I went forth from the humble doorway: “My heart is moved for you. Oh! seek humbly for a new and better mind; be not Italian, but German; for whether Martin Luther lives or dies, the Fatherland will have need for all brave young nobles such as you.”

And I had answered his appeal--by going to Palaestro.

I had laughed a dozen times with Marianna over the absurd appeal of his theology. I had made merry with her over the unsophisticated piety of Ilsa. I had vowed I had seen enough of the cold bleak Northland, with its drunken ritters and its swinish peasants. But had I, in actual truth? To what end was I idling away the days at Palaestro? I was surely growing no richer, nor extending my landed possessions, nor advancing my interest at the royal courts, nor gaining reputation in arms, nor even winning fame as poet and scholar. Was I prepared to choose as my adopted city neither Athens nor Imperial Rome, but Sybaris? When would all these days of unceasing pleasure end? Was there no better name for me to leave to the after world than that of a delightful host, a talented improviser, a clever talker, an elegant dresser, and a potent drinker? Assuming even that the Christian theology was a snare or a fantasm, was I justified as a confessed pagan in this inglorious life? As I turned away from my window I saw on my marble writing desk the vellum-bound volumes of Seneca, Epictetus and Marcus Aurelius, newly come from the presses of Venice and Basel. In a kind of frenzy I searched them, striving to find some convenient maxim to beat back the train of my questionings. I could not have sought worse helpers. Everywhere was incentive to despise creature delights; to seek the hard tasks of duty--otherwise life was rottenness and failure. I flung down the books in disgust. I had read them often before, and had been merely charmed by their pure Greek or Latinity. Why did they seem but as harsh reprovers now? I leaped up from the table and clinched my hands.

“_Pestilenza!_” I swore in Italian; “it is that cursed friar of Wittenberg that has done this! He may make his own bonfire and roast in it, for all me. Can I have no peace for my thoughts?”

I cast myself upon my bed. Sleep came, but this time with vivid dreams of the Regenstein, and the rolling Harzland. I saw Ilsa galloping before me, as we chased a flying roe. I saw her yellow hair blowing out in the wind; I heard her clicking to her great tall horse “faster! faster!” Down on a fallen log we swept; I saw her beast stumble, I put out my hand to grasp her bridle--missed it. My heart surged with horror as she plunged headlong--then to my vast relief, I awoke.

No sleep returned to me that night. I rose in the morning unrested and out of humor. Marianna scolded me for sitting too long with my books. Was not Signor Campelli learned enough for all of us? We had a magnificently conceived fête that day; a “Court of Love” after the Provençal troubadour fashion; Madonna Marianna sitting in a rose bower, while all we gentlemen came before our goddess, and chanted verses in her honor, each striving to outdo the other in elaborate compliment; and then laid before her carefully wrought questions touching matters of the “gay science” of Messere Cupido. Her own wit was exquisite, but afterward she scolded me for my banal remarks and verses.

“You were even more stupid than the bishop,” she said at the end of her reproof.

I promised amends, but in truth my mind was growing ill at ease. The festival of Pan had been the climax to my days of pleasure. After that, the reaction--often resisted--never abated. Strangely enough, now that I was released from all need of speaking it, my thoughts frequently came to me in German. I once so far forgot myself as to assert I preferred beer to Chianti, and when a valet was very slow and clumsy I whipped out “Donnerwetter!”--an awful oath, that made the poor fool turn pale as a sheet. If one had asked me what was wrong, I would have answered frankly, “I do not know. All seems well with me.” Yet I was ever moody, irritable, and frequently, I fear, an ungracious host.

“Ah! carissime,” Marianna said one evening, as we stood together on the logia, her hand on my shoulder; “are we not happy? Very happy? Are not our days drifting on like a little brown boat on the blue waves of a bay, straight in the face of the sunshine?”

“Very happy, Madonetta, but I do not like your simile to the sunshine.”

“Wherefore, Gualtiero?”

“The sun will set, and take the light with him.”

“Our sun will never set.”

“If we only could be sure, Marianna mia!”

“Silence,” she commanded. “Have you not everything a man could wish? For us there is no sunset, only an ever brightening glow and glory.”

“I will not argue against the wisdom of Signora Minerva and the grace of Donna Venus.”

She seemed appeased at my answer, but I was not pleased at myself. Spasmodically and by marked effort I threw myself into the task of enlivening my guests. For a few days the festivities at the palazzo were more furious than ever. Once I heard Andrea remarking to a fellow valet, “His Excellency is drinking an unusual amount of late.” This, however, hardly troubled me. So long as I did not think about Wittenberg and the Harzland, about Luther and Ilsa, I was tolerably content. Then came a letter from Rome which raked up old memory. A quondam boon companion sent a goodly parcel of court news, an account of the wedding of the Duca di Caserna, a discussion of the latest Latin play, and thus concluded:--

“Since you are lately out of your barbarous Germany, you of course know all about that friar Luther. People here talk of him more and more. ‘To the flames’ say some, but that is not easy. The Elector of Saxony is protecting him, and they say many of his countrymen are mad enough to call him not a heretic, but a saint. Sylvestro Priario, His Holiness’s censor, has written a bitter and biting retort to those much discussed theses. Some men here say it is somewhat too harsh really to serve its end. He asks ‘if Luther has an iron snout and a head of brass which it is impossible to shatter?’ Again he says, ‘It is the nature of dogs to bite. I fear thou hast a dog for thy father.’ Again--seeing that Luther has said there is no warrant for indulgences in the Scripture--‘we have not the authority of the Scripture for them, but we have the authority of the Roman Church and the Popes, which is the greater of the twain.’ All this is, beyond doubt, abrupt, and I fear Priario was ill advised in publishing it. Still this German trouble-monger must be quieted, and perhaps the sharpest way is the best. I understand he is about to be cited to Rome to answer for his heresies. Then if he recants, he is stultified with his countrymen, and his influence is gone. If he refuses, there is assuredly only one end for him. But I plague you enough with such trifles. Let me tell you of the Conte di Rampogli’s Genoese inamorata. She has grown marvellously handsomer since she bleached her hair.”

So Rome was acting at last. Of course I had been a true prophet. The Wittenberg friar would learn what it was to curtail the perquisites of the Vatican. But I had not the least interest in the small talk that concluded the gossipy letter. I threw down the offending sheets, and stamped them under foot.

“Why in the name of every saint,” I vowed, “cannot Dominati write like a sensible man?” And again, despite all my efforts, I was a very tiresome host that afternoon.

But letters, like misfortunes, seldom come singly, and surely I was ready to call them all unlucky. About a week later came a letter in German, forwarded by a courier of the Elector of Saxony bound for Rome. It was from the Freiherr von Steinitz at Wittenberg, and I could not complain that it was not informing. On the contrary, I read it through thrice and carefully before tearing it into very small bits. The Freiherr was clearly disappointed I had not kept my pledge to return to Wittenberg. “We speak of you often and miss you much; but of course you will be again in Germany ere many months.” Then he went on with news. Old Graf Eckbert of Blankenburg was dead. His last days had been drunken and blasphemous. Even his wildest “drink brothers” had shuddered at his end. Naturally he left to Moritz only a decrepit castle and heavy debts owing the Frankfurt Jews. Moritz would have to cut down most of his fine forest to pay them. As for Ilsa, she was of course left with next to nothing. Her aunt Theckla was bringing great pressure upon her to take the veil at Quedlinburg, as the only means to redeem her father’s soul. She would have already consented had not her Wittenberg kinsfolk, under the advice of Dr. Luther, strongly urged against it. “For,” said Von Steinitz significantly, “we would rejoice to see her married to some noble young graf or ritter who would do her honor, and we engage she shall not come to him without a fair dowry, seeing that God has denied us daughters of our own. However, if no such proper gentleman appears soon at Blankenburg, we fear the abbess will have her own way.”

After this broad hint he went on to speak of Dr. Luther and the contest raging around him. The struggle had passed far beyond any matter of indulgences. Men were wagging their heads over questions as to the whole of the priest’s right to power. It was hard for an unlearned man to know what was right, but Von Steinitz would never believe such a saintly man as Dr. Luther a heretic,--and he knew ten thousand other German nobles felt with him. They would not let the friar be haled to Rome to fall into the claws of his enemies. If he must be judged, it must be before an impartial tribunal, and in Germany. Otherwise they would teach His Holiness and the cardinals a few plain things.

The letter concluded with expressing an earnest hope that I would soon return to Germany, “where there is a work for all of us.”

Yes, a work! Life was real there; real deeds to do; real hopes to strive for; real deaths if needs be to die. And lo! I was spending the months in this palace of dreams at Palaestro. And while I tarried Ilsa was hesitating on the threshold of the convent. Why were such obnoxious questions and choices thrust upon me?

“Your letter was from Germany?” asked Marianna that afternoon.

“Yes, Madonna.”

“That is why you are all scowls; why your laughter and jests are forced; why you lapse so often into silence. I have a command to give you.”

“Deliver it.”

“You are to receive no more letters from Germany.”

“Obedience is easy. It is not likely that I will get another for many a long day.”

“Come, then, Signor Compelli has arranged a delightful mask up by the grotto. We are to act the fifth eclogue of Vergil. He is to be Menalcas and we ask you to be Mopsus.”

“No doubt heaven intended me for a shepherd,” I rejoined dryly, and did my best to please them all the afternoon.

* * * * *

Marianna’s injunction, however, was broken far sooner than anticipated. Only a week after the coming of Von Steinitz’s letter a barefoot friar came to the palazzo. He was on pilgrimage to Rome, he said, and had turned aside from Perugia to deliver this. Andrea brought the packet to me just as I had returned from a luncheon upon the rocks. It was in vigorous, though not hyper-polished Latin, and in a strong, firm hand. I read it like a man possessed.

“_Martin Luther, Augustinian friar, to the right noble Graf
Walter von Lichtenstein zum Regenstein, my good friend_; grace
and peace be to you through our Lord Jesus Christ.

“A blunt man God made me; if then my bluntness offends, His, not
mine, must be the blame. Dearest Graf, I do not write you now,
because I have looked for you in Wittenberg all these months and
seen you not. I write you because tales strange and grievous of
your manner of life have come from Italy even to Saxony, borne
by too many travellers for me to doubt their truth. And now in
my ears sounds the warning of God through Ezekiel the Prophet,
saying, ‘When thou speakest not to warn the wicked from his
wicked way, he shall die in his iniquity, but his blood will I
require at thy hand.’ Therefore lest His displeasure be upon me I
am constrained to speak.

“Did I not love you, nevertheless I would strive the more to be
silent, yet now I feel even as did Paul bereft of his friend
Demas, ‘who,’ he wrote, ‘hath forsaken me, having loved this
present world.’ Again, did I not see you noble, rich, gifted with
all manner of earthly knowledge, fitted to play a notable part in
the battle betwixt Michael and his angels and the Dragon and his
angels, I would yet strive to be silent. But silent now I cannot
be, for I have yearned for you.

“What has bewitched you? Who has ensnared you and plucked you
away from the works of God to the works of the devil? Ah! the
devil is crafty and strong, and we are told can array himself as
an angel of light. Is it as an angel that he has come to you?
Has some woman of glozing tongue and unvirtuous heart spoken
unto you, and have you been beguiled? Are you in the case of
the simple wayfarer, to whom she has said, ‘Stolen waters are
sweet, and bread eaten in secret is pleasant.’ Remember then the
remainder of the tale, ‘He knoweth not that the dead are there
and that her guests are in the depths of hell.’

“Therefore, I say unto you, be you warned and repent. No man
while living has sinned beyond the gracious forgiveness of
heaven. Be not as one of those who wrapped his talent in the
napkin, and must return it to his Master tarnished and without
usury. Return to Germany: to the contest to which God is
summoning all men good and true. Then on the last great day will
your soul be clear, and whether poor Martin Luther’s body lives
or is burned will matter little. The Truth is from above and will
prevail forever. I have spoken. Farewell.”

I tore the paper to small bits the instant I had read it, but even at this far day I can repeat every word.