"Why, my brother, you have gone backward two thousand years, to breathe what Dante calls the fetid air of paganism, 'Il puzzo del paganes mo.'"
Fra Angelico tried in vain to move this heart, as hardened and desperate as that of Judas; during three days he fasted, prayed, and begged the prayers of his fraternity, offered himself to God as a victim to save this soul, and employed against his own body the instruments of penance. But God did not grant him the grace he sought. Every morning, while painting at the Vatican, he rendered an account to the Pope of his unsuccessful efforts, and recommended the Greek to the pontifical prayers. The three days expired; again he solicited a still longer delay of the execution. "Holy Father," said he, "a residence in prison seems to exasperate this unhappy man; perhaps I might obtain a better hearing if I could take him out and let him breathe the fresh air." "I can refuse you nothing, Fra Giovanni. Bring him to see this chapel, I am sure your painting will do his soul some good." "I will bring him to-morrow, since your Holiness permits me, and at the same time solicit your daily visit, as I am certain his meeting the vicar of Jesus Christ will have more effect on him than my pictures." Nicholas V. promised to do so, and wrote an order to place the captive at liberty for one day, and at the responsibility of Fra Giovanni. It was a touching spectacle to see the Pope and the monk so generously united in their [{676}] efforts to convert this paganized schismatic.
The next morning Fra Angelico ran to the prison, brought out the Greek, and proposed to him to see his pictures, without mentioning the Pope. Argyropoulos, who rather prided himself on his knowledge of art as well as of literature, willingly accepted the invitation. The fresh air and the glorious Roman sun softened his mood, hitherto so ferocious, and gave him an air almost of serenity. Fra Angelico, transported with joy, conducted his future neophyte to the Vatican, and introduced him to the chapel, praying God to work in him the same miracle which he had granted to St. Methodius, whose painting of the Last Judgment, on the walls of a palace belonging to the King of Bulgaria, had not only converted the king, but as many of his subjects as looked upon it. The Greek was deeply affected by these admirable pictures, and took upon himself to explain them lengthily. To show his artistic knowledge, he criticised the executioners who stoned St. Stephen, and thought their countenances lacked sufficient energy. The painter monk humbly accepted the criticism, which was not wanting in justice. A competent judge has said that the character of Fra Angelico was so formed of a love amounting to ecstasy that he never could familiarize himself with dramatic scenes where hateful and violent passions had the ascendency. In the painting of the life of St. Lawrence, the Beato begged the Greek to particularly observe the prison window where the martyr was converting a man on his knees, who afterward became St. Hippolytus. "In painting this scene of conversion I thought of you, my brother," he said, in a voice so sweet and tender it would have touched a heart of marble; but Argyropoulos turned away his eyes, and pretended not to hear him. Fra Angelico's heart was grieved, and he felt his only hope was in the sovereign pontiff. He had not long to wait for him. Nicholas V. entered into the chapel, with a dignity tempered by an ineffable tenderness. The Beato knelt down—his forehead in the dust—to kiss the feet of His Holiness. The sight of the Pope always caused him transports of joy, equal to those of St. Joseph of Cupertino, who went into ecstasy whenever in the presence of the vicar of Jesus Christ. But a contrary effect was visible in the mind of the pagan of Constantinople. At the sight of the pontiff he reassumed all his dignity. "On your knees, my brother, on your knees!" in vain said Beato to him, while pulling his dress. "Never," cried the Greek, "never will I bend the knee before the idol of the Azymites—before a priest who wished our submission at the Council of Florence." Angelico sighed in the dust at the obstinacy of this pagan, but the Pope, calm and dignified, began to converse in Greek with Argyropoulos, who, captivated instantaneously by this graciousness, replied by a verse of Homer. "My son," said Nicholas V., "I also will cite you a passage from Homer. In the second book of the Iliad, the prudent Ulysses cries out: 'All Greeks cannot reign, too many chiefs would do harm; let us have but one sovereign, but a single king, him to whom the prudent Saturn entrusted the sceptre and the laws to govern us:
Thus, my son, God wished in his church but one chief, one flock, and one shepherd." At these words the Greek grew angry and replied in harsh terms. "My son," said the Pope to him with tenderness, "I forgive you, I pity your blindness, and I will continue to pray God to enlighten you."
Nicholas V. withdrew.
Argyropoulos, mortified at his own conduct, returned to Fra Angelico, and again commenced to eulogize the pictures. "My paintings are worth nothing," cried the monk, bursting into tears, "since they have failed to convert you. I am unworthy the name of preacher, since all my teaching has not succeeded, [{677}] and I have brought you before the holy father, only to hear you outrage the dignity of God's representative on earth." The remembrance of this scene completely overcame the tender and pious soul of Fra Angelico. He became pale and weak, sank on his white robe like a lily on its stalk, and fell on the pavement as one dead, according to Dante:
"E cadi, come corpo morte cade."
The Greek, seized with pity and astonishment, tried vainly to restore him. He thought he had killed him, and this man, whose hands were already bloodstained, imagined he had committed another murder. He hated himself when he saw this angel extended at his feet. He knelt before him, rubbed his hands in his own, and threw in his face the water in the vase which was used in his painting. "Father, father," cried he, "come back to life, and I swear to do all you wish." The Angelico opened his beautiful eyes, languishing and moist with tears. "My brother," said he, "you restore me to life, but again you will give me to death if you forget your promise. Now we must leave the chapel; it is time, according to my duty, that I take you back to prison." Notwithstanding his pallor and feebleness Fra Angelico insisted on leaving the Vatican immediately, and returned home leaning on the shoulder of Argyropoulos. He said nothing until they reached the prison of Tor di Nona. But there again, alone with him, the angelical monk knelt before the prisoner, and reproached him for his conduct toward the Pope with that sweetness he never lost, and which so greatly astonished his biographer Vasari. [Footnote 191]
[Footnote 191: "Never," said he, "could one surprise him in an angry moment. This seemed to me incredible: Il che e grandissima cosa e mi pare impossibile a credere.">[