Chapter XIX: I Revisit the Holy City

In June, 1519, even as Dr. Luther had been girding up his loins for his disputation with Eck, the Seven Prince Electors, after infinite intrigue and lying, bribe asking and bribe giving (from which vile proceedings only Frederick of Saxony held nobly aloof), chose Prince Charles of the Low Countries and Spain, as our German Emperor,--‘Emperor of the Holy Roman Empire,’ ‘Cæsar, Pius, Felix, semper Augustus’,--with I know not what other grandiloquent titles, which the heralds, who made proclamation, gave to him. So now we had a lad of nineteen to rule over us,--the heir of a great hereditary possession. Good things were said of his precosity and wit, but many a German shook his head over the choice. “There are a thousand things to be done, and only this boy to do them. Please God he will cut himself clear of his Flemish and Spanish advisers and know what the Fatherland craves. But, praise heaven, at least we have not Francis, the flashy Frenchman, to lord it in the Fatherland!”

While the election hung in the balance, while His Holiness and the Monsignori at Rome doubted how the electoral pendulum would swing, there had been abundant growlings and citations from Rome, but no actual warfare against Luther. Now, I knew well enough, the Vatican would furbish up its ponderous arsenal. Young ‘Kaiser Karl’ would need the political support of the Papacy in his wide projects, and that support could be had,--against a price, the sacrifice of Luther. During the end of the winter of 1519 and 1520 I made another visit to Wittenberg, to tell of my own life and thoughts and work; to gather the comfort and inspiration I knew would come by a week of contact with Dr. Luther, and to learn from his own lips the progress of the contest that would now, I realized, in a few months march to an issue. For myself I received hearty praise, and (where deserved) brotherly criticism. Again he spoke to me those words so often in my mind now, ‘He who will do the will shall know the doctrine.’ When I told him of the report concerning Ilsa at Quedlinburg, he shook his head sadly.

“Poor broken-winged dove. I could have told her all that years ago. Lucky it is, hers is a strait convent, and not one of those places where the nuns are called ‘pretty poppets.’ Then were her state infinitely worse. But we shall see what we shall see, and wait God’s good time.”

“I am trying,” I replied; “but I cannot keep from thinking.”

“Thoughts are free from taxes,” he said with a laugh and shrug, and changed the subject.

Oh, the industry of the man! Correspondence now with almost every learned doctor in Germany: vast praise: vast blame. Doubts, fears, questionings, encouragement blown in upon him every day--even from foreign lands. Let others write the story of the great debate. Time fails me to tell more than my personal history. I found Dr. Luther encouraged by nearly all the younger scholars and thinkers of Germany, although chided by many of the elder, and somewhat coldly frowned upon by the great Erasmus, who drew back instinctively at the mere hinting of “battle.” And always amid all these cares Dr. Luther was busy with pamphlet after pamphlet, “Expositions of the Lord’s Prayer for Simple Laymen,” and many more, while the Wittenberg printing-press kept clanging, clanging--flinging his words to all Germany.

But the warfare could not rest with hard words and ink spilling. We all knew that, although we seldom talked of certain eventualities. Often as I stood in the little study, leaning against the green-tiled stove, and watched Luther’s busy quill racing over the paper, and his tonsured head bowing at his task, my sight would fade. I could see that which, in a short year, might be witnessed--a hooting mob in some strange city, a roaring bale-fire, and within it the friar of Wittenberg. Far, far beyond any question of indulgences had passed the struggle now,--beyond any formal question of Papal prerogative, even. Since the Leipzig dispute, all the teachings of the Church from the day of St. Paul seemed laid under ruthless scrutiny. What might issue forth neither Dr. Luther, I, nor any man knew. We only knew something was afoot,--fearful, wonderful,--the like whereof had not been for nigh fifteen centuries.

At Rome I learned was Eck, and it took no wiseacre to divine his purpose. A letter from a faithful Italian correspondent, that reached me at the Regenstein soon after my return, put forth the matter clearly.

“Everybody now talks about your Luther. They praise him sometimes, much as one praises the craft of the devil. The friars’ party is scolding the Pope under breath for not ‘quenching the flames’ at the outset instead of wasting his time with hunts, artists, poets, and diplomats. Eck is filling Rome with his clamors. He claims to know Germany, and says that though many may now cry up Luther, none will dare fight and die for him when he is once fairly branded as ‘heretic.’ He urges instant action. If it were not that all state processes here at Rome are slow in coming as the Greek calends he would have secured the bull of formal and final excommunication already. As it is, the issue will probably occur ere very long. _Then_ we shall indeed discover whether under all your German smoke there indeed lurk a few sparks of fire, as you try to make me believe.”

The letter was of enough import to make me exceeding thoughtful. Heart and soul, hand and fortune, I was enlisted in Luther’s cause. My letters in his behalf to Rome had been to the very limit of vehemence. If thus far I had done little for him in Germany, it was because in Germany he had seemed right able to take care of himself. But now that the Vatican was preparing its ultimatum I began to consider whether my sole duty was to await passively in the Regenstein what might befall the man whom I called more than ever brother, and also prophet. For better than most mortals I knew the difficulty Leo de’ Medici labored under at Rome in apprehending the true state of Germany,--how a stroke at Luther might not mean the crushing of a heretic, but the enkindling of a nation--the precipitation of religious war, beside which the memory of the old Hussite wars would fade as empty dreams. Could I get the ear of Leo for this? Could I persuade him not to believe Eck: not to put the worst possible inference upon Luther’s words which might be explained as ill-considered or rash? In short, could I for once teach the Monsignori of the Vatican that they had blundered, and must hold out the olive branch with what grace they might? None realized the odds against me more clearly than myself. The chances were all failure. The man who went to Rome to plead the cause of the heretic might forfeit all past favor: might possibly take the heretic’s place himself. But I was not living unto myself now,--please God I would not die unto myself. I made my resolve.

In March I wrote to Luther announcing my intention of visiting Rome, travelling rapidly, and returning to the North as soon as possible. The two years of my exile from Rome had long expired; I was informed His Holiness expressed surprise at my failure to return; I believed I could get at least one fair audience touching the cause I had so at heart, and if blessings should light on the peacemakers, blessings then should be mine.

I received a characteristic reply from Wittenberg; words I later learned Luther used in another letter to Dr. Spalatin, Elector Frederick’s confessor. After thanking me heartily, he expressed no confidence in the success of my mission. He expected only anathemas and wars. “But I commit everything to God, and give up my bark to the winds and the waves. The battle is the Lord’s. For do you think by _peace_ Christ will advance His cause? I fear not. Has not He himself--have not all the martyrs--poured out their blood in the combat?” Then at the end he told how he would pray for me night and morning, as I fared on the long, long way.

The day after this letter came I called in Andrea, very suddenly.

“Andrea, make ready quickly. A long journey.”

“Eccellenza goes again to Wittenberg?”

“To Rome.”

The fellow almost swooned with joy. Then clapped his hands, sung, danced.

“Italy, Italy. Returning to the sunlight! Santa Maria, what a blessed day!”

“Do not exult too much. I shall not stay there. I go to plead with His Holiness in behalf of Dr. Luther. I must travel with as small a train, and as great speed as possible. I leave preparation to you. You understand?”

“To me, _si_! Eccellenza. I am proud of the honor. Am I not a Sienese, and when were they wanting?”

And he fulfilled his word. At dawn the next morning, after a very brief farewell with Moritz, I rode out of the Regenstein, with only Andrea and two other attendants. Rome was not to condemn the Wittenberg friar without one friend to plead his cause.

* * * * *

This is not a tale of far travel. My flight through Germany, Switzerland, and Lombardy was almost as fast as we could relay our horses. At Genoa I took a local fulcenna for Civita Vecchia, and had a prompt and prosperous voyage. One evening we sighted what was feared to be a Barbary corsair, and we had chilly thoughts of a transport to Tunis and a round ransom; but the stiff breeze helped us to leave the strange sail behind. On landing, an easy stage brought us to Rome. Three years, nearly, since I had quitted it, and yet exceeding familiar:--the throngs of monks and clerics on the streets, the gay habits and uniforms on the Corso, the venerable ruins, the passing now and again of a cardinal’s coach of state, the streets of sombre stucco-fronted palazzi. Only the piers of the new San Pietro had risen a little higher, and I was told Raffaelo (who had just died) had completed still more masterpieces.

I was in Rome on no pleasure trip, but once there I had to survey the field ere acting. The Forlis, luckily, were on embassy in France, or I should have hesitated more about returning to Italy; but now since I had kept my former apartments I made myself quite at home, and Andrea was nigh beside himself with glee when he recognized them. As quickly as possible also I sent for my old tailor and had three suits of the latest fashion prepared, while Andrea hired the necessary horses and servants that I might affect all my old elegance.

Imagine me, then, breaking in upon my old companions. For three days I ran from palazzo to palazzo, to be met with effusive greetings and gossip at every hand. The Pope was near the city at his hunting lodge, and, I was assured, had asked repeatedly wherefore I did not return (my sentence having expired) to Rome. My business at the court I concealed for the nonce under polite talk about “private affairs.” In a few days I had learned all that I wished to know, and could take action.

* * * * *

The Bull had not yet been signed by the Pope, although cast in its final form. A long wrangle among the Latinists as to its precise verbiage had delayed matters. “Its language, as well as its orthodoxy, must be beyond reproach.” Eck and his Dominicans had clamored for instant anathemas, but a moderate party had insisted that Luther be given a last interval of sixty days wherein to recant. What I must do, I must do quickly. I resolved to request an interview with the Pope at his hunting lodge, and to this end I visited the Secretary of State, the Cardinale di Frascati.

I knew the illustrious prelate well, and he was in an amiable mood when they ushered me into his private camera. It was one of the first exceeding hot days. His Eminence lounged in a very informal dressing-gown upon a wicker chair. The windows were filled with linen in lieu of glass, and the tiled floor had just been sprinkled with water.

“Ah! my dear Gualtiero, for I renew the old familiarity,” he began, my wish explained, “I am sure an interview can be arranged. His Holiness will rejoice to see you. But may I crave your motive?”

“Eminenza,” I replied, with premeditated boldness, “I understand the reputation I have left in Rome.”

“You ought, you mad fellow,” he answered, laughing.

“I fear therefore what I shall say will be accounted a merry but ill-timed jest. Do me the favor to consider me wholly in earnest.”

“Alas!” quoth he, mopping his brow; “I had hoped you came merely with pleasant gossip; but pray state this dreadfully serious business.”

“Has your Eminence heard that I have written to Rome in behalf of the alleged heretic Luther?”

“It was a most cleverly sustained witticism. You played the _advocatus diaboli_ to perfection.”

“I may well have done so. I was in earnest.”

The Cardinal dropped his handkerchief, and leaned back, staring at me.

“You seriously argue the case of that friar? that child of perdition, foe of the Church, of the spawn of Arius and Hus? You, whose frivolities are notorious?” I nodded. “Jupiter and all gods! Your reasons?”

“Very simple ones. Luther is a saint. He who raises a hand against him is accursed even as the Jews who stoned the kneeling Stephen.”

He clasped his hands over his head. “Are my ears betraying me? _You_ actually try to quote Scripture? Pray, when have you been seized with such miraculous piety?”

I took a step nearer to his chair.

“Hearken, Eminenza. I am not here to justify myself, but another. But this I will say for myself; I am not what I was once. I have seen, felt, suffered. I am no longer my old vain, idling, self-pleasing self. I have met in Germany a Man. And that Man has taught me that I at least have a work to do, and a life to live ere I render back my life and talents to God. It is in behalf of that Man I am in Rome, for his name is Martin Luther.”

He beckoned for me to cease, but I would not.

“That Martin Luther has been denounced and anathematized here I know full well. He has not sought this quarrel. I know the beginning. The mad blasphemies of Tetzel which he denounced have been since denounced by many an honest Papalist. But because he dared to tie up the Pope’s and the Archbishop of Mainz’s dear money bags countless slanders were cast against his name. He is honest. He has sought diligently to justify himself. In that search he was perforce driven by his opponents to question many things beside the Indulgences. For this he was branded as ‘heretic.’ If it be heresy to seek earnestly for truth, then heretic he is, and so am I.”

“_Pax!_” commanded the Cardinal, coloring slightly. “We are indeed in a noble argument. You forget your Luther had an ample opportunity to recant before Caïetanus, and scoffed at all the legate’s benignity.”

“A chance to recant if wrong, yes! But not to justify himself if in the right.”

“How could he be in the right?” quoth His Eminence, with dignity; “the Church has spoken against him.”

I had learned somewhat from my master of the value of boldness.

“But if the Church be wrong, so much the worse for the Church.”

Frascati crossed himself in horror.

“That is blasphemous, even from you, Gualtiero. Are you turned so mad up there in the North that you expect to convince His Holiness and the whole Curia by arguments like this?”

“Not in the least.”

“Then explain, for heaven’s sake.”

“I expect to tell His Holiness what no one yet has evidently dared to tell him. I would tell him that it is not with Martin Luther he deals, but with all Germany,--yes, and I dare swear with other lands, too; or, as God rules above us, I see such a bloody cleaving and sorrow to the Church as will make the old ‘Babylonish Captivity’ and the ‘Great Schism,’ and all the other sore troubles, but as a tale that is told.”

The Cardinal rose with a kind of benignity, and laid his hand upon my shoulder.

“Impossible, Gualtiero; impossible. How can His Holiness be misinformed? I dare swear that you are crazed. You have read too much Seneca and Epictetus. Try Euripides and Propertius. If it will make you happier, you shall see the Pope to-morrow, but it will do as much good as a bucket can to fill the sea. This hot weather has distracted you. Let us sit and talk of pleasanter matters,--the negotiations as to the new Spanish bishoprics, for instance. Try a little of this wine from my own estate, it is very good for afflictions of the head. What a mistake ever to let you go North!”

I spent an hour with him. I went away realizing clearly the probable futility of my mission. My temptation was to turn back without pressing for the Papal interview. But I was of the Regenstein ritters. It was better to fail, to perish, than to flee away.