THE FRIAR OF WITTENBERG

THE MACMILLAN COMPANY

NEW YORK · BOSTON · CHICAGO DALLAS · SAN FRANCISCO

MACMILLAN & CO., Limited

LONDON · BOMBAY · CALCUTTA MELBOURNE

THE MACMILLAN CO. OF CANADA, Ltd.

TORONTO

THE FRIAR OF WITTENBERG

BY

WILLIAM STEARNS DAVIS

AUTHOR OF “A FRIEND OF CÆSAR” “GOD WILLS IT,” ETC.

New York

THE MACMILLAN COMPANY

1912

All rights reserved

Copyright, 1912, By THE MACMILLAN COMPANY.

Set up and electrotyped. Published May, 1912.

Norwood Press J. S. Cushing Co.—Berwick & Smith Co. Norwood, Mass., U.S.A.

[Pg v]

CHAPTER I A ROOM IN THE VATICAN

“Martin Luther—yes, the name of that fool of a German comes back to me.”

“You were going to tell a story about him, Eminenza,” I remarked.

“A very brief and scurvy story.” The Cardinale di Forli stretched out his red-slippered feet, and reached languidly for the carafe of Chianti upon the table at his elbow. He had already emptied the cup several times and his thick lips were a little flushed. “It was six years ago—1511, to be exact, I remember; just before my lucky elevation. Well, I was then lodging at our convent near Santa Maria in Ara Cœli. I was the prior and manager, and very good dinners we had. What must needs happen but that stupid northern brute of a friar should visit Rome, and demand hospitality at our convent. Ugh! but what an unkempt rogue! He had come from Wittenberg, some den or town up in your frozen north, on business for his order before the papal chancery. We tried to show him kindness, and it was as good as a mummer’s play to see the way the fellow ran around to visit all the holy spots in the city. I doubt if there was a smoky shrine at which he didn’t burn a candle, [Pg 2]or a dirty saint’s relic he didn’t want to see. He was amazingly

anxious to go everywhere possible to heap up indulgence for the souls of his parents, and one day I told him about the Scala Santa. ‘Just mount the Holy Stairs on your knees,’ I advised, ‘say a prayer on each of the twenty-eight, and though your father were a bandit and your mother a witch, the devil will never get a glimpse of them in the hereafter.’ So off he went like one possessed, but came back much sooner than I thought. ‘Did you mount and pray on the stairs?’ I asked. ‘Reverend prior,’ answered he with a bad genuflection, and worse Latin, ‘as I knelt on the middlemost stair it seemed as though a voice spoke to me from heaven, “The just shall live by faith!” I arose and descended without kneeling on the rest.’ ‘The just shall live by faith!’ That from a bristly boar! Oh! his lousy impudence! He was so utterly comical I had to laugh in his face.”

“The incident is vastly entertaining,” interposed the other member of our conference, his Eminence of Rocca, “but the Cardinale di Forli will allow me to remind him that I have a dinner appointment with a lady by the Ponte Molle, and that we have much to discuss.”

“Ah, yes,” returned Forli, good-humoredly, tossing down his cupful, “so business before pleasure—” And he reached for a pile of papers upon the table....

A handsome, well-groomed man was Forli, barely gray, and becoming somewhat stout from abundant good living, though his red robes and red biretta could make him look half saintly when he rolled in his open carriage down the Corso. His companion, the Cardinale di Rocca, a leaner, younger personage, was in civilian costume, the latest achievement of his Venetian tailor, and even now he was glancing down with satisfaction upon his party-colored red and green hose, delicately embroidered with falcons and [Pg 3]herons in gold thread, his black velvet doublet with its slashed sleeves, and the large jewelled buckles upon his morocco shoes.

The room wherein we found ourselves was one of those numberless huge, rambling apartments upon the upper floor of the Vatican. It was richly furnished in a dark heavy way, with a good “Annunciation” (I believe by Timoteo Viti) upon the wall, Persian carpets under foot, and three wide windows opening gloriously upon the wide Vatican gardens, whence—a great distance below—sounded the shouts of a bevy of young court chamberlains and court ladies at some game, mingled with the dull clicks of the masons chipping on the marble blocks for the rebuilding of S. Pietro. Forli of course had his own palace in the city, but like the other Papal vice-chancellors, preferred to keep a few rooms at the Vatican, since he wished to be in easy touch with His Holiness. Here he had arranged for us to meet him.

“Draw your chair nearer, Gualtiero,” he motioned to me, “and you also, Rocca. I take it the servants are out of earshot, but stones and plaster in the Vatican tell tales. Ahem! We’ve not discussed the matter fairly yet. Since the Conte di Palaestro is so interested—”

“I cry your pardon, Eccellenza,” I interposed, “I prefer the Cardinale di Rocca shall know me as the Graf von Regenstein.”

Forli’s good humor was not shaken. “As you wish it,” he laughed, “let me tell Rocca, then, that you are the son of the Graf von Lichtenstein zum Regenstein (do I get your barbarous German aright?), that most valorous condottieri who did Popes Alexander Borgia and Julius such rare service, and who showed himself wise beyond his people by marrying the Contessa di Palaestro. Whereby their noble son and heir here is by title at once ‘Regenstein’ and ‘Palaestro,’—although [Pg 4]why, being Italian born and bred, he prefers his outlandish northern name, may the Madonna tell me—he cannot tell himself!”

And then with another good-natured shrug he began unrolling the papers.

“So, then, we are agreed that the Archbishop of Bari should be displaced, and his benefices divided?”

Rocca nodded, his thin lips curling, “He was asked on the hunt only last week by His Holiness—surest sign he is in succession for the next creation.”

“The cardinals will hardly consent to that,” I suggested, “the college is over large already.”

Forli shook his head. “I know the Pope. He smiles blandly and denies when you hint ‘more cardinals,’ but I understand positively he is resolved. There will be another red hat in a twelvemonth, unless Bari is ruined—or removed,” letting his voice drop.

“And I,” thrust in Rocca, “have had my eyes since Easter on that benefice of his in Aragon. Mine as soon as he leaves it vacant! Haven’t I paid good gold for the reversion? And the income, six thousand florins; what a godsend in my present debts and poverty!”

“I share your anxiety, my dear Rocca,” returned Forli with benignity. “The reasons I wish Bari away from home are more personal, although he holds one or two other preferments I would be glad to add to my own,—a priory in Flanders, with a very good little canonry somewhere near Bordeaux. And our dear Gualtiero here—his interest, of course, is yet more immediate.”

“The conte then has decided to seek advancement in the Church?” asked Rocca, glancing at me keenly.

“I have not really considered it until very lately,” I replied; “but the continued favor of His Holiness has led me to feel that my ambition might lie there, and if the Archbishopric [Pg 5]of Bari were offered me, I presume I could gratify my friends by ceding the dependent benefices. I am passing rich,” I added a little proudly; “it would be the preferment, the opportunity, of course—”

“Never despise the florins, my friend!” cried Forli, paternally; “recall the old Tuscan proverb, ‘Good cats mouse better just to grow fat, than from mere hunger.’ Still, we will not decline Bari’s benefices,—eh, Rocca?”

“No—by Santo Paolo!”

“Don’t swear by the old saints, Rocca,” urged Forli, frowning; “very vulgar: the worthy Bembo, our arbiter of letters, would be incensed. ‘By Jupiter!’ ‘By Diana!’ those are the oaths for philosophers and gentlemen. Yet again to business: we are agreed Bari has become dangerous to my influence with His Holiness, to Rocca’s pocket, to Regenstein’s ambition. The Archbishopric of Bari once vacated, it will take only a timely hint to secure it for our Gualtiero, who will, of course, be content to wait a few years for the actual cardinalate.”

“I will,” I assented, “yet, Eminenza, consider that his present Holiness raised his nephew to the red hat, though only twenty-one years old; I am twenty-five—”

“But hardly a kinsman of His Holiness,” smiled Forli; “a vast difference. Yet patience,—Leo de’ Medici is living a long while for a pope. That abscess which got him so many votes at the conclave may break out again at any time, and then!—”

He waved his arms with true Italian elegance. “We trust the conclave will appreciate the learning, eloquence, and ah,—the piety of the Cardinale di Forli,” completed Rocca.

“Grazie!” cried the other, half rising.

“I consent, gentlemen,” I said, a trifle bored at the meandering of the conversation. “I understand you do not wish to attack Bari unless you can propose me as his successor; [Pg 6]otherwise, some candidate of the Cardinale di Metaponto would reap all your reward. I consent to aid your undertaking, and I pledge myself not to lack in gratitude. Yet wisdom would advise due caution in compassing the disgrace of Bari.”

“Disgrace?” echoed both cardinals, looking at me a little blankly.

“I used the word, reverend sirs.”

“Why,” smiled Rocca, blowing through his teeth, “I presume there is after all some disgrace in dying with great abruptness.”

Before I could make answer, a polite knock upon the door brought a “Pestilenza!” from the lips of Forli, but he promptly called out to enter.

The stranger was a dapper little man all in black, with a black chin beard, and long, clawlike hands and fingers.

“Pardon, a thousand pardons, for intruding upon my masters,” he began, almost ere he had straightened himself after a profound bow; “but knowing your excellencies’ admiration for all objects of virtue, I venture to intrude to tell you that the ‘Crucifixion,’ by Messere Raffaello, being completed, is now this instant on exhibition at the end of this gallery. No doubt you will be pleased to see it.”

Not a cloud seemed to darken Forli’s face as he rose and signed to us to follow.

“We thank you, Signor Primati; indeed we are not so busy but that we can give ourselves the pleasure of a hasty inspection.”

Rocca and I could do nothing save accompany him, and of what followed I have no need to speak at great length, save how we all agreed that the distinguished artist had surpassed almost all his earlier triumphs in dealing with such themes.⁠[1] [Pg 7]Very happily he had grouped the weeping women before the cross; and in the face of the agonizing Madonna I recognized a most fortunate treatment of the features of the famous Fornarina, his mistress, the baker’s daughter from the Trastevere, while in St. Peter, St. John and others, I noticed well-known Roman ecclesiastics. I was especially pleased to see Forli’s daughter, my own beloved Marianna, portrayed as Mary Magdelene, although in so doing the artist had been obliged to depart from custom, and represent her with dark instead of golden hair.

It was, in short, a masterpiece, even for the master, and well repaid the interruption. Rocca and I also were given a new opportunity to observe that just power of critical appreciation which made Forli so esteemed among the art patrons of Rome.

“The foreshortening of the arms of the impenitent thief—how admirable! The reflection upon the helmet of the centurion to the left could hardly have been better. I could wish Messere Raffaello could have concentrated more light upon the cross. A mere trifle. He’s wise in avoiding over-theatrical effects. And notice the chiaroscuro of the background: that magnificent fork of lightning over Jerusalem! I congratulate you, Signore Primati, upon having the oversight of such a picture. Imagine the delight of His Holiness.”

“I knew your excellencies would be repaid,” replied the custodian, rubbing his lean little hands. “Messere Raffaello will rejoice in your kind judgments. He was so fearful of your verdict, I could not induce him to remain. He has slipped away, not daring to await your august decision. Ah! New pleasure,—I see the most worthy Sanazzaro coming to bestow his approbation upon your Eminenza’s opinion.”

The newcomer was a sleek, well-oiled gentleman, sprucely dressed in a tight-fitting suit of mouse color, with only a quill pen behind an ear to show that he called himself a professional [Pg 8]scholar. He was full of fine phrases for us, and laudations of the picture, which last were obviously perfunctory, for it soon appeared, to the vast disgust of Primati, that he had come not to admire the painting but to submit to Forli about forty new lines of his half-finished epic, “The Virgin Birth,” and to crave the cardinal’s wisdom upon certain doubtful quantities and Latinisms, a judgment in which he politely invited Rocca and myself to join; and Forli, pleased to show the same mastery of one art as of another, made haste to run over the hexameters, bestowing a profusion of compliments, intermixed with tactful criticism.

“The introduction of the cattle in the stable at Bethlehem,—charming and natural. But bos—a crude and grating word—is scarcely used in this sense by Seneca or Cicero. Again you speak of ‘Our Lord coming for the remission of our sins.’ Excellent, thrice excellent were we mere theologians, but a poet with such an exalted theme might with more dignity say ‘Apollo come to bear the divine pity of the Manes.’ Happier, is that not? And more genuinely classical and Latin? But the next two lines—how delicately you throw the accent upon this venisset. Yet I cannot approve this ‘Virgo Maria’; ‘Virgo Diana’ is the only proper term, as I observed before; I crave your opinion in this, my dear conte, your Latinity is impeccable.”

“I agree with you, Eminenza,” I assented, “although in view of the theme, some slight concession might be made in the nomenclature.”

“Consistency, consistency,” urged the senior cardinal. “Signor Sanazzaro is not writing for ignorant monks, but for men of true learning and virtù. You will find all the best authorities on my side,—Bembo, Pomponazzo, Politiano, Pontano, and many more. Purge away these small blemishes, my noble friend, and who dare not hope that the ‘Virgin Birth’ may not enjoy the immortality of the ‘Æneid’?”

[Pg 9]

“The Eminenza’s praise is overpowering,” smiled the poet, receiving back the paper with a profound reverence; “but I fear I have intruded upon some grave conversation. I invoke the blessings of Olympus upon your excellencies, and crave leave to depart.” With which he bowed himself away.

Rocca, mindful of his own appointment, was clearly glad to have him gone, nor did I wish to detain him. Primati had already quitted us, and as the poet’s smart mantle disappeared down the gallery, Rocca at once broke in with,

“Now let us resume the former discussion.”

“About ‘the Crucifixion’?” I asked.

“About the assassination,” corrected Forli, smiling gently, and beckoning us back to his chamber.

I suspect the others had already noticed my reluctant manner, for by the time the door was closed behind us Rocca had me by the arm and was demanding: “Wherefore do you look so sour?”

“Because,” I retorted bluntly, “I do not enjoy the answer given me by his Eminence of Forli,” at which the elder cardinal burst out in a hearty laugh.

“Assassination? Well, by Jupiter, the word is uncouth, and we will find one that will sit better on squeamish German stomachs! Say, then, we discuss the means for the withdrawal, departure, translation to a happier Elysian field than Rome of the learned and pious Monsignore di Bari.”

I could see both Forli and Rocca watching me with the same glance itinerant students fix on younger neophytes, when testing their ability to drain a very deep flagon. But I was resolved not to let myself be browbeaten. “Your Eminences,” I said a little crossly, “do not think I fail to appreciate the service you have proposed to do a very young man like myself; but you must not think me ungrateful if I say I did not contemplate the murder of the Archbishop of Bari when I accepted this appointment.”

[Pg 10]

“And what, pray,” drawled Rocca with insulting irony, “did the estimable Graf von Lichtenstein zum Regenstein conceive we did purpose to arrange at this charming tête-à-tête?”

I was aware I seemed to play the fool. I was no stranger at Rome. However, I refused to capitulate.

“You told me to come and concert the displacement of Bari. Good. I will do so. So far I go with you. He has intrigued against His Holiness with the King of France. We can secure proofs. The Spanish Ambassador will aid us. My body-servant Andrea knows some women in Bari’s household; through them we can get gossip to be used against him. A little cleverness—such as your Eminences can so readily supply—will suffice to send Bari an outlaw to Paris. Assassination becomes doubly a crime when it is needless.”

Forli sat back in his armchair, complacently twirling his thumbs.

“My dear Gualtiero,” he said slowly, “despite your Germanisms I love you well, and so of course does Marianna. But I confess it is your thick northern wits that now are working, not your Italian ones. You stick at poison or dagger, but a man’s fair name or riches you would filch with all merriment: though betwixt a swift, easy death, and an outlawry with Donna Poverty for companion and mistress—pro dei immortales! give me the dying! Besides, your scheme is impracticable. You know how strong French influence is with His Holiness, King Francis will move heaven and hell to save a precious adherent from disgrace. Bari is a skilful huntsman, a good Latin versifier, and plays excellently at cards—three strong reasons why Leo will hesitate to believe ill of him. In fine—amico mio—you are brought back to only one way,—a very short one.”

I stood drumming with my fingers on the window-sill, staring stupidly out into the Vatican gardens. I could not controvert [Pg 11]the practical arguments of Forli. Bari’s position with the Pope was nigh impregnable. I could not give warning of the plot concocted by an intimate friend and the father of my lady-love,—and of these facts the others were quite aware. I had always expected some day to be dragged into a plot like this—and had dreaded it. But what must be must. After all, the murder was not of my contriving. Meantime Forli conferred eagerly with Rocca.

“Well—how manage it?”

“I always liked Pope Alexander Borgia’s way—an invitation to dinner—a box of sweetmeats put within tempting reach—”

“Ugh!” interrupted Forli, “I was almost nipped thus at Siena four years ago,—took medicine just in time. But it will not do now. Bari distrusts us. He’ll accept none of our invitations.”

“A fee to his cook?”

“Very uncertain. Sometimes such servants are devilishly faithful.”

“Then we seem driven to look for bravoes.”

“Very right. Bari is reckless where he goes. I know where his lady friends live and when he visits them. It can be managed. I used to know the proper man, but he got himself hanged and quartered up at Ferrara last autumn.”

Rocca scratched his chin meditatively.

“I believe Ettore Orosi is in Rome. His price, however, would be very high.”

“He who put the Duke of Gandia in the river, and later cut down the Cardinal of Pavia, whilst he was on his way to visit the Pope?”

“The same man. I think I can reach him. My valet saw him yesterday—just returned from Naples.”

“We must pay his fee. A very proper man,” Forli was reflecting aloud, when I turned upon them angrily.

[Pg 12]