MICHAEL ANGELOMichel, piu che mortal, Angel divino. — ARIOSTO.Similamente operando all' artista ch' a l'abito dell' arte e man che trema. — DANTE, Par. xiii., st. 77.DEDICATION.Nothing that is shall perish utterly,But perish only to revive againIn other forms, as clouds restore in rainThe exhalations of the land and sea.Men build their houses from the masonryOf ruined tombs; the passion and the painOf hearts, that long have ceased to beat, remainTo throb in hearts that are, or are to be.So from old chronicles, where sleep in dustNames that once filled the world with trumpet tones,I build this verse; and flowers of song have thrustTheir roots among the loose disjointed stones,Which to this end I fashion as I must.Quickened are they that touch the Prophet's bones.PART FIRST.I.PROLOGUE AT ISCHIAThe Castle Terrace. VITTORIA COLONNA, and JULIA GONZAGA.VITTORIA. Will you then leave me, Julia, and so soon, To pace alone this terrace like a ghost?JULIA. To-morrow, dearest.VITTORIA.Do not say to-morrow.A whole month of to-morrows were too soon.You must not go. You are a part of me.JULIA. I must return to Fondi.VITTORIA.The old castleNeeds not your presence. No one waits for you.Stay one day longer with me. They who goFeel not the pain of parting; it is theyWho stay behind that suffer. I was thinkingBut yesterday how like and how unlikeHave been, and are, our destinies. Your husband,The good Vespasian, an old man, who seemedA father to you rather than a husband,Died in your arms; but mine, in all the flowerAnd promise of his youth, was taken from meAs by a rushing wind. The breath of battleBreathed on him, and I saw his face no more,Save as in dreams it haunts me. As our loveWas for these men, so is our sorrow for them.Yours a child's sorrow, smiling through its tears;But mine the grief of an impassioned woman,Who drank her life up in one draught of love.JULIA. Behold this locket. This is the white hair Of my Vespasian. This is the flower-of-love, This amaranth, and beneath it the device Non moritura. Thus my heart remains True to his memory; and the ancient castle, Where we have lived together, where he died, Is dear to me as Ischia is to you.VITTORIA. I did not mean to chide you.JULIA.Let your heartFind, if it can, some poor apologyFor one who is too young, and feels too keenlyThe joy of life, to give up all her daysTo sorrow for the dead. While I am trueTo the remembrance of the man I lovedAnd mourn for still, I do not make a showOf all the grief I feel, nor live secludedAnd, like Veronica da Gambara,Drape my whole house in mourning, and drive forthIn coach of sable drawn by sable horses,As if I were a corpse. Ah, one to-dayIs worth for me a thousand yesterdays.VITTORIA. Dear Julia! Friendship has its jealousies As well as love. Who waits for you at Fondi?JULIA. A friend of mine and yours; a friend and friar. You have at Naples your Fra Bernadino; And I at Fondi have my Fra Bastiano, The famous artist, who has come from Rome To paint my portrait. That is not a sin.VITTORIA. Only a vanity.JULIA.He painted yours.VITTORIA. Do not call up to me those days departed When I was young, and all was bright about me, And the vicissitudes of life were things But to be read of in old histories, Though as pertaining unto me or mine Impossible. Ah, then I dreamed your dreams, And now, grown older, I look back and see They were illusions.JULIA.Yet without illusionsWhat would our lives become, what we ourselves?Dreams or illusions, call them what you will,They lift us from the commonplace of lifeTo better things.VITTORIA.Are there no brighter dreams,No higher aspirations, than the wishTo please and to be pleased?JULIA.For you there are;I am no saint; I feel the world we live inComes before that which is to be here after,And must be dealt with first.VITTORIA.But in what way?JULIA. Let the soft wind that wafts to us the odor Of orange blossoms, let the laughing sea And the bright sunshine bathing all the world, Answer the question.VITTORIA.And for whom is meantThis portrait that you speak of?JULIA.For my friendThe Cardinal Ippolito.VITTORIA.For him?JULIA Yes, for Ippolito the Magnificent. 'T is always flattering to a woman's pride To be admired by one whom all admire.VITTORIA. Ah, Julia, she that makes herself a dove Is eaten by the hawk. Be on your guard, He is a Cardinal; and his adoration Should be elsewhere directed.JULIA.You forgetThe horror of that night, when Barbarossa,The Moorish corsair, landed on our coastTo seize me for the Sultan Soliman;How in the dead of night, when all were sleeping,He scaled the castle wall; how I escaped,And in my night-dress, mounting a swift steed,Fled to the mountains, and took refuge thereAmong the brigands. Then of all my friendsThe Cardinal Ippolito was firstTo come with his retainers to my rescue.Could I refuse the only boon he askedAt such a time, my portrait?VITTORIA.I have heardStrange stories of the splendors of his palace,And how, apparelled like a Spanish Prince,He rides through Rome with a long retinueOf Ethiopians and NumidiansAnd Turks and Tartars, in fantastic dresses,Making a gallant show. Is this the wayA Cardinal should live?JULIA.He is so young;Hardly of age, or little more than that;Beautiful, generous, fond of arts and letters,A poet, a musician, and a scholar;Master of many languages, and a playerOn many instruments. In Rome, his palaceIs the asylum of all men distinguishedIn art or science, and all FlorentinesEscaping from the tyranny of his cousin,Duke Alessandro.VITTORIA.I have seen his portrait,Painted by Titian. You have painted itIn brighter colors.JULIA.And my Cardinal,At Itri, in the courtyard of his palace,Keeps a tame lion!VITTORIA.And so counterfeitsSt. Mark, the Evangelist!JULIA.Ah, your tame lionIs Michael Angelo.VITTORIA.You speak a nameThat always thrills me with a noble sound,As of a trumpet! Michael Angelo!A lion all men fear and none can tame;A man that all men honor, and the modelThat all should follow; one who works and prays,For work is prayer, and consecrates his lifeTo the sublime ideal of his art,Till art and life are one; a man who holdsSuch place in all men's thoughts, that when they speakOf great things done, or to be done, his nameIs ever on their lips.JULIA.You too can paintThe portrait of your hero, and in colorsBrighter than Titian's; I might warn you alsoAgainst the dangers that beset your path;But I forbear.VITTORIA.If I were made of marble,Of Fior di Persico or Pavonazzo,He might admire me: being but flesh and blood,I am no more to him than other women;That is, am nothing.JULIA.Does he ride through RomeUpon his little mule, as he was wont,With his slouched hat, and boots of Cordovan,As when I saw him last?VITTORIA.Pray do not jest.I cannot couple with his noble nameA trivial word! Look, how the setting sunLights up Castel-a-mare and Sorrento,And changes Capri to a purple cloud!And there Vesuvius with its plume of smoke,And the great city stretched upon the shoreAs in a dream!JULIA.Parthenope the Siren!VITTORIA. And yon long line of lights, those sunlit windows Blaze like the torches carried in procession To do her honor! It is beautiful!JULIA. I have no heart to feel the beauty of it! My feet are weary, pacing up and down These level flags, and wearier still my thoughts Treading the broken pavement of the Past, It is too sad. I will go in and rest, And make me ready for to-morrow's journey.VITTORIA.I will go with you; for I would not loseOne hour of your dear presence. 'T is enoughOnly to be in the same room with you.I need not speak to you, nor hear you speak;If I but see you, I am satisfied.[They go in.MONOLOGUE: THE LAST JUDGMENTMICHAEL ANGELO's Studio. He is at work on the cartoon of the Last Judgment.MICHAEL ANGELO. Why did the Pope and his ten Cardinals Come here to lay this heavy task upon me? Were not the paintings on the Sistine ceiling Enough for them? They saw the Hebrew leader Waiting, and clutching his tempestuous beard, But heeded not. The bones of Julius Shook in their sepulchre. I heard the sound; They only heard the sound of their own voices.Are there no other artists here in Rome To do this work, that they must needs seek me? Fra Bastian, my Era Bastian, might have done it; But he is lost to art. The Papal Seals, Like leaden weights upon a dead man's eyes, Press down his lids; and so the burden falls On Michael Angelo, Chief Architect And Painter of the Apostolic Palace. That is the title they cajole me with, To make me do their work and leave my own; But having once begun, I turn not back. Blow, ye bright angels, on your golden trumpets To the four corners of the earth, and wake The dead to judgment! Ye recording angels, Open your books and read? Ye dead awake! Rise from your graves, drowsy and drugged with death, As men who suddenly aroused from sleep Look round amazed, and know not where they are!In happy hours, when the imagination Wakes like a wind at midnight, and the soul Trembles in all its leaves, it is a joy To be uplifted on its wings, and listen To the prophetic voices in the air That call us onward. Then the work we do Is a delight, and the obedient hand Never grows weary. But how different is it En the disconsolate, discouraged hours, When all the wisdom of the world appears As trivial as the gossip of a nurse In a sick-room, and all our work seems useless,What is it guides my hand, what thoughts possess me, That I have drawn her face among the angels, Where she will be hereafter? O sweet dreams, That through the vacant chambers of my heart Walk in the silence, as familiar phantoms Frequent an ancient house, what will ye with me? 'T is said that Emperors write their names in green When under age, but when of age in purple. So Love, the greatest Emperor of them all, Writes his in green at first, but afterwards In the imperial purple of our blood. First love or last love,—which of these two passions Is more omnipotent? Which is more fair, The star of morning or the evening star? The sunrise or the sunset of the heart? The hour when we look forth to the unknown, And the advancing day consumes the shadows, Or that when all the landscape of our lives Lies stretched behind us, and familiar places Gleam in the distance, and sweet memories Rise like a tender haze, and magnify The objects we behold, that soon must vanish?What matters it to me, whose countenanceIs like the Laocoon's, full of pain; whose foreheadIs a ploughed harvest-field, where three-score yearsHave sown in sorrow and have reaped in anguish;To me, the artisan, to whom all womenHave been as if they were not, or at mostA sudden rush of pigeons in the air,A flutter of wings, a sound, and then a silence?I am too old for love; I am too oldTo flatter and delude myself with visionsOf never-ending friendship with fair women,Imaginations, fantasies, illusions,In which the things that cannot be take shape,And seem to be, and for the moment are.[Convent bells ring.Distant and near and low and loud the bells, Dominican, Benedictine, and Franciscan, Jangle and wrangle in their airy towers, Discordant as the brotherhoods themselves In their dim cloisters. The descending sun Seems to caress the city that he loves, And crowns it with the aureole of a saint. I will go forth and breathe the air a while.II.SAN SILVESTROA Chapel in the Church of San Silvestra on Monte Cavallo.VITTORIA COLONNA, CLAUDIO TOLOMMEI, and others.VITTORIA. Here let us rest a while, until the crowd Has left the church. I have already sent For Michael Angelo to join us here.MESSER CLAUDIO. After Fra Bernardino's wise discourse On the Pauline Epistles, certainly Some words of Michael Angelo on Art Were not amiss, to bring us back to earth.MICHAEL ANGELO, at the door. How like a Saint or Goddess she appears; Diana or Madonna, which I know not! In attitude and aspect formed to be At once the artist's worship and despair!VITTORIA. Welcome, Maestro. We were waiting for you.MICHAEL ANGELO. I met your messenger upon the way, And hastened hither.VITTORIA.It is kind of youTo come to us, who linger here like gossipsWasting the afternoon in idle talk.These are all friends of mine and friends of yours.MICHAEL ANGELO. If friends of yours, then are they friends of mine. Pardon me, gentlemen. But when I entered I saw but the Marchesa.VITTORIA.Take this seatBetween me and Ser Claudio Tolommei,Who still maintains that our Italian tongueShould be called Tuscan. But for that offenceWe will not quarrel with him.MICHAEL ANGELO.Eccellenza—VITTORIA. Ser Claudio has banished Eccellenza And all such titles from the Tuscan tongue.MESSER CLAUDIO. 'T is the abuse of them and not the use I deprecate.MICHAEL ANGELO.The use or the abuseIt matters not. Let them all go together,As empty phrases and frivolities,And common as gold-lace upon the collarOf an obsequious lackey.VITTORIA.That may be,But something of politeness would go with them;We should lose something of the stately mannersOf the old school.MESSER CLAUDIO.Undoubtedly.VITTORlA.But thatIs not what occupies my thoughts at present,Nor why I sent for you, Messer Michele.It was to counsel me. His HolinessHas granted me permission, long desired,To build a convent in this neighborhood,Where the old tower is standing, from whose topNero looked down upon the burning city.MICHAEL ANGELO. It is an inspiration!VITTORIA.I am doubtfulHow I shall build; how large to make the convent,And which way fronting.MICHAEL ANGELO.Ah, to build, to build!That is the noblest art of all the arts.Painting and sculpture are but images,Are merely shadows cast by outward thingsOn stone or canvas, having in themselvesNo separate existence. Architecture,Existing in itself, and not in seemingA something it is not, surpasses themAs substance shadow. Long, long years ago,Standing one morning near the Baths of Titus,I saw the statue of LaocoonRise from its grave of centuries, like a ghostWrithing in pain; and as it tore awayThe knotted serpents from its limbs, I heard,Or seemed to hear, the cry of agonyFrom its white, parted lips. And still I marvelAt the three Rhodian artists, by whose handsThis miracle was wrought. Yet he beholdsFar nobler works who looks upon the ruinsOf temples in the Forum here in Rome.If God should give me power in my old ageTo build for Him a temple half as grandAs those were in their glory, I should countMy age more excellent than youth itself,And all that I have hitherto accomplishedAs only vanity.VITTORIA.I understand you.Art is the gift of God, and must be usedUnto His glory. That in art is highestWhich aims at this. When St. Hilarion blessedThe horses of Italicus, they wonThe race at Gaza, for his benedictionO'erpowered all magic; and the people shoutedThat Christ had conquered Marnas. So that artWhich bears the consecration and the sealOf holiness upon it will prevailOver all others. Those few words of yoursInspire me with new confidence to build.What think you? The old walls might serve, perhaps,Some purpose still. The tower can hold the bells.MICHAEL ANGELO. If strong enough.VITTORIA.If not, it can be strengthened.MICHAEL ANGELO. I see no bar nor drawback to this building, And on our homeward way, if it shall please you, We may together view the site.VITTORIA.I thank you.I did not venture to request so much.MICHAEL ANGELO. Let us now go to the old walls you spake of, Vossignoria—VITTORIA.What, again, Maestro?MICHAEL ANGELO. Pardon me, Messer Claudio, if once more I use the ancient courtesies of speech. I am too old to change.III.CARDINAL IPPOLITO.A richly furnished apartment in the Palace of CARDINAL IPPOLITO. Night.JACOPO NARDI, an old man, alone.NARDI. I am bewildered. These Numidian slaves, In strange attire; these endless ante-chambers; This lighted hall, with all its golden splendors, Pictures, and statues! Can this be the dwelling Of a disciple of that lowly Man Who had not where to lay his head? These statues Are not of Saints; nor is this a Madonna, This lovely face, that with such tender eyes Looks down upon me from the painted canvas. My heart begins to fail me. What can he Who lives in boundless luxury at Rome Care for the imperilled liberties of Florence, Her people, her Republic? Ah, the rich Feel not the pangs of banishment. All doors Are open to them, and all hands extended, The poor alone are outcasts; they who risked All they possessed for liberty, and lost; And wander through the world without a friend, Sick, comfortless, distressed, unknown, uncared for.Enter CARDINAL HIPPOLITO, in Spanish cloak and slouched hat.IPPOLITO. I pray you pardon me that I have kept you Waiting so long alone.NARDI.I wait to seeThe Cardinal.IPPOLITO.I am the Cardinal.And you?NARDI.Jacopo Nardi.IPPOLITO.You are welcomeI was expecting you. Philippo StrozziHad told me of your coming.NARDI.'T was his sonThat brought me to your door.IPPOLITO.Pray you, be seated.You seem astonished at the garb I wear,But at my time of life, and with my habits,The petticoats of a Cardinal would be—Troublesome; I could neither ride nor walk,Nor do a thousand things, if I were dressedLike an old dowager. It were putting wineYoung as the young Astyanax into gobletsAs old as Priam.NARDI.Oh, your EminenceKnows best what you should wear.IPPOLITO.Dear Messer Nardi,You are no stranger to me. I have readYour excellent translation of the booksOf Titus Livius, the historianOf Rome, and model of all historiansThat shall come after him. It does you honor;But greater honor still the love you bearTo Florence, our dear country, and whose annalsI hope your hand will write, in happier daysThan we now see.NARDI.Your Eminence will pardonThe lateness of the hour.IPPOLITO.The hours I count notAs a sun-dial; but am like a clock,That tells the time as well by night as day.So no excuse. I know what brings you here.You come to speak of Florence.NARDI.And her woes.IPPOLITO. The Duke, my cousin, the black Alessandro, Whose mother was a Moorish slave, that fed The sheep upon Lorenzo's farm, still lives And reigns.NARDI.Alas, that such a scourgeShould fall on such a city!IPPOLITO.When he dies,The Wild Boar in the gardens of Lorenzo,The beast obscene, should be the monumentOf this bad man.NARDI.He walks the streets at nightWith revellers, insulting honest men.No house is sacred from his lusts. The conventsAre turned by him to brothels, and the honorOf women and all ancient pious customsAre quite forgotten now. The officesOf the Priori and GonfalonieriHave been abolished. All the magistratesAre now his creatures. Liberty is dead.The very memory of all honest livingIs wiped away, and even our Tuscan tongueCorrupted to a Lombard dialect.IPPOLITO. And worst of all his impious hand has broken The Martinella,—our great battle bell, That, sounding through three centuries, has led The Florentines to victory,—lest its voice Should waken in their souls some memory Of far-off times of glory.NARDI.What a changeTen little years have made! We all rememberThose better days, when Niccola Capponi,The Gonfaloniere, from the windowsOf the Old Palace, with the blast of trumpets,Proclaimed to the inhabitants that ChristWas chosen King of Florence; and alreadyChrist is dethroned, and slain, and in his steadReigns Lucifer! Alas, alas, for Florence!IPPOLITO. Lilies with lilies, said Savonarola; Florence and France! But I say Florence only, Or only with the Emperor's hand to help us In sweeping out the rubbish.NARDI.Little hopeOf help is there from him. He has betrothedHis daughter Margaret to this shameless Duke.What hope have we from such an Emperor?IPPOLITO. Baccio Valori and Philippo Strozzi, Once the Duke's friends and intimates are with us, And Cardinals Salvati and Ridolfi. We shall soon see, then, as Valori says, Whether the Duke can best spare honest men, Or honest men the Duke.NARDI.We have determinedTo send ambassadors to Spain, and layOur griefs before the Emperor, though I fearMore than I hope.IPPOLITO.The Emperor is busyWith this new war against the Algerines,And has no time to listen to complaintsFrom our ambassadors; nor will I trust them,But go myself. All is in readinessFor my departure, and to-morrow morningI shall go down to Itri, where I meetDante da Castiglione and some others,Republicans and fugitives from Florence,And then take ship at Gaeta, and goTo join the Emperor in his new crusadeAgainst the Turk. I shall have time enoughAnd opportunity to plead our cause.NARDI, rising. It is an inspiration, and I hail it As of good omen. May the power that sends it Bless our beloved country, and restore Its banished citizens. The soul of Florence Is now outside its gates. What lies within Is but a corpse, corrupted and corrupting. Heaven help us all, I will not tarry longer, For you have need of rest. Good-night.IPPOLITO.Good-night.Enter FRA SEBASTIANO; Turkish attendants.IPPOLITO. Fra Bastiano, how your portly presence Contrasts with that of the spare Florentine Who has just left me!FRA SEBASTIANO.As we passed each other,I saw that he was weeping.IPPOLITO.Poor old man!FRA SEBASTIANO. Who is he?IPPOLITO.Jacopo Nardi. A brave soul;One of the Fuoruseiti, and the bestAnd noblest of them all; but he has made meSad with his sadness. As I look on youMy heart grows lighter. I behold a manWho lives in an ideal world, apartFrom all the rude collisions of our life,In a calm atmosphere.FRA SEBASTIANO.Your EminenceIs surely jesting. If you knew the lifeOf artists as I know it, you might thinkFar otherwise.IPPOLITO.But wherefore should I jest?The world of art is an ideal world,—The world I love, and that I fain would live in;So speak to me of artists and of art,Of all the painters, sculptors, and musiciansThat now illustrate Rome.FRA SEBASTIANO.Of the musicians,I know but Goudimel, the brave maestroAnd chapel-master of his Holiness,Who trains the Papal choir.IPPOLITO.In church this morning,I listened to a mass of Goudimel,Divinely chanted. In the Incarnatus,In lieu of Latin words, the tenor sangWith infinite tenderness, in plain Italian,A Neapolitan love-song.FRA SEBASTIANO.You amaze me.Was it a wanton song?IPPOLITO.Not a divine one.I am not over-scrupulous, as you know,In word or deed, yet such a song as that.Sung by the tenor of the Papal choir,And in a Papal mass, seemed out of place;There's something wrong in it.FRA SEBASTIANO.There's something wrongIn everything. We cannot make the worldGo right. 'T is not my business to reformThe Papal choir.IPPOLITO.Nor mine, thank Heaven.Then tell me of the artists.FRA SEBASTIANO.Naming oneI name them all; for there is only one.His name is Messer Michael Angelo.All art and artists of the present dayCentre in him.IPPOLITO.You count yourself as nothing!FRA SEBASTIANO. Or less than nothing, since I am at best Only a portrait-painter; one who draws With greater or less skill, as best he may, The features of a face.IPPOLITO.And you have hadThe honor, nay, the glory, of portrayingJulia Gonzaga! Do you count as nothingA privilege like that? See there the portraitRebuking you with its divine expression.Are you not penitent? He whose skilful handPainted that lovely picture has not rightTo vilipend the art of portrait-painting.But what of Michael Angelo?FRA SEBASTIANO.But latelyStrolling together down the crowded Corso,We stopped, well pleased, to see your EminencePass on an Arab steed, a noble creature,Which Michael Angelo, who is a loverOf all things beautiful, especiallyWhen they are Arab horses, much admired,And could not praise enough.IPPOLITO, to an attendant.Hassan, to-morrow,When I am gone, but not till I am gone,—Be careful about that,—take BarbarossaTo Messer Michael Angelo, the sculptor,Who lives there at Macello dei Corvi,Near to the Capitol; and take besidesSome ten mule-loads of provender, and sayYour master sends them to him as a present.FRA SEBASTIANO. A princely gift. Though Michael Angelo Refuses presents from his Holiness, Yours he will not refuse.IPPOLITO.You think him likeThymoetes, who received the wooden horseInto the walls of Troy. That book of VirgilHave I translated in Italian verse,And shall, some day, when we have leisure for it,Be pleased to read you. When I speak of TroyI am reminded of another townAnd of a lovelier Helen, our dear CountessJulia Gonzaga. You remember, surely,The adventure with the corsair Barbarossa,And all that followed?FRA SEBASTIANO.A most strange adventure;A tale as marvellous and full of wonderAs any in Boccaccio or Sacchetti;Almost incredible!IPPOLITO.Were I a painterI should not want a better theme than that:The lovely lady fleeing through the nightIn wild disorder; and the brigands' campWith the red fire-light on their swarthy faces.Could you not paint it for me?FRA SEBASTIANO.No, not I.It is not in my line.IPPOLITO.Then you shall paintThe portrait of the corsair, when we bring himA prisoner chained to Naples: for I feelSomething like admiration for a manWho dared this strange adventure.FRA SEBASTIANO.I will do it.But catch the corsair first.IPPOLITO.You may beginTo-morrow with the sword. Hassan, come hither;Bring me the Turkish scimitar that hangsBeneath the picture yonder. Now unsheathe it.'T is a Damascus blade; you see the inscriptionIn Arabic: La Allah illa Allah,—There is no God but God.FRA SEBASTIANO.How beautifulIn fashion and in finish! It is perfect.The Arsenal of Venice can not boastA finer sword.IPPOLITO.You like it? It is yours.FRA SEBASTIANO. You do not mean it.IPPOLITO.I am not a Spaniard,To say that it is yours and not to mean it.I have at Itri a whole armoryFull of such weapons. When you paint the portraitOf Barbarossa, it will be of use.You have not been rewarded as you should beFor painting the Gonzaga. Throw this baubleInto the scale, and make the balance equal.Till then suspend it in your studio;You artists like such trifles.FRA SEBASTIANO.I will keep itIn memory of the donor. Many thanks.IPPOLITO. Fra Bastian, I am growing tired of Rome, The old dead city, with the old dead people; Priests everywhere, like shadows on a wall, And morning, noon, and night the ceaseless sound Of convent bells. I must be gone from here; Though Ovid somewhere says that Rome is worthy To be the dwelling-place of all the Gods, I must be gone from here. To-morrow morning I start for Itri, and go thence by sea To join the Emperor, who is making war Upon the Algerines; perhaps to sink Some Turkish galleys, and bring back in chains The famous corsair. Thus would I avenge The beautiful Gonzaga.FRA SEBASTIANO.An achievementWorthy of Charlemagne, or of Orlando.Berni and Ariosto both shall addA canto to their poems, and describe youAs Furioso and Innamorato.Now I must say good-night.IPPOLITO.You must not go;First you shall sup with me. My seneschalGiovan Andrea dal Borgo a San Sepolcro,—I like to give the whole sonorous name,It sounds so like a verse of the Aeneid,—Has brought me eels fresh from the Lake of Fondi,And Lucrine oysters cradled in their shells:These, with red Fondi wine, the Caecu banThat Horace speaks of, under a hundred keysKept safe, until the heir of PosthumusShall stain the pavement with it, make a feastFit for Lucullus, or Fra Bastian even;So we will go to supper, and be merry.FRA SEBASTIANO. Beware! I Remember that Bolsena's eels And Vernage wine once killed a Pope of Rome!IPPOLITO. 'T was a French Pope; and then so long ago; Who knows?—perhaps the story is not true.IV.BORGO DELLE VERGINE AT NAPLESRoom in the Palace of JULIA GONZAGA. Night.JULIA GONZAGA, GIOVANNI VALDESSO.JULIA. Do not go yet.VALDESSO.The night is far advanced;I fear to stay too late, and weary youWith these discussions.JULIA.I have much to say.I speak to you, Valdesso, with that franknessWhich is the greatest privilege of friendship.—Speak as I hardly would to my confessor,Such is my confidence in you.VALDESSO.Dear CountessIf loyalty to friendship be a claimUpon your confidence, then I may claim it.JULIA. Then sit again, and listen unto things That nearer are to me than life itself.VALDESSO. In all things I am happy to obey you, And happiest then when you command me most.JULIA. Laying aside all useless rhetoric, That is superfluous between us two, I come at once unto the point and say, You know my outward life, my rank and fortune; Countess of Fondi, Duchess of Trajetto, A widow rich and flattered, for whose hand In marriage princes ask, and ask it only To be rejected. All the world can offer Lies at my feet. If I remind you of it, It is not in the way of idle boasting, But only to the better understanding Of what comes after.VALDESSO.God hath given you alsoBeauty and intellect; and the signal graceTo lead a spotless life amid temptations,That others yield to.JULIA.But the inward life,—That you know not; 't is known but to myself,And is to me a mystery and a pain.A soul disquieted, and ill at ease,A mind perplexed with doubts and apprehensions,A heart dissatisfied with all around me,And with myself, so that sometimes I weep,Discouraged and disgusted with the world.VALDESSO. Whene'er we cross a river at a ford, If we would pass in safety, we must keep Our eyes fixed steadfast on the shore beyond, For if we cast them on the flowing stream, The head swims with it; so if we would cross The running flood of things here in the world, Our souls must not look down, but fix their sight On the firm land beyond.JULIA.I comprehend you.You think I am too worldly; that my headSwims with the giddying whirl of life about me.Is that your meaning?VALDESSO.Yes; your meditationsAre more of this world and its vanitiesThan of the world to come.JULIA.Between the twoI am confused.VALDESSO.Yet have I seen you listenEnraptured when Fra Bernardino preachedOf faith and hope and charity.JULIA.I listen,But only as to music without meaning.It moves me for the moment, and I thinkHow beautiful it is to be a saint,As dear Vittoria is; but I am weakAnd wayward, and I soon fall back againTo my old ways, so very easily.There are too many week-days for one Sunday.VALDESSO. Then take the Sunday with you through the week, And sweeten with it all the other days.JULIA. In part I do so; for to put a stop To idle tongues, what men might say of me If I lived all alone here in my palace, And not from a vocation that I feel For the monastic life, I now am living With Sister Caterina at the convent Of Santa Chiara, and I come here only On certain days, for my affairs, or visits Of ceremony, or to be with friends. For I confess, to live among my friends Is Paradise to me; my Purgatory Is living among people I dislike. And so I pass my life in these two worlds, This palace and the convent.VALDESSO.It was thenThe fear of man, and not the love of God,That led you to this step. Why will you notGive all your heart to God?JULIA.If God commands it,Wherefore hath He not made me capableOf doing for Him what I wish to doAs easily as I could offer HimThis jewel from my hand, this gown I wear,Or aught else that is mine?VALDESSO.The hindrance liesIn that original sin, by which all fell.JULIA. Ah me, I cannot bring my troubled mind To wish well to that Adam, our first parent, Who by his sin lost Paradise for us, And brought such ills upon us.VALDESSO.We ourselves,When we commit a sin, lose Paradise,As much as he did. Let us think of this,And how we may regain it.
Michel, piu che mortal, Angel divino. — ARIOSTO.
Similamente operando all' artista ch' a l'abito dell' arte e man che trema. — DANTE, Par. xiii., st. 77.
Nothing that is shall perish utterly,But perish only to revive againIn other forms, as clouds restore in rainThe exhalations of the land and sea.Men build their houses from the masonryOf ruined tombs; the passion and the painOf hearts, that long have ceased to beat, remainTo throb in hearts that are, or are to be.So from old chronicles, where sleep in dustNames that once filled the world with trumpet tones,I build this verse; and flowers of song have thrustTheir roots among the loose disjointed stones,Which to this end I fashion as I must.Quickened are they that touch the Prophet's bones.
The Castle Terrace. VITTORIA COLONNA, and JULIA GONZAGA.
VITTORIA. Will you then leave me, Julia, and so soon, To pace alone this terrace like a ghost?
JULIA. To-morrow, dearest.
VITTORIA.Do not say to-morrow.A whole month of to-morrows were too soon.You must not go. You are a part of me.
JULIA. I must return to Fondi.
VITTORIA.The old castleNeeds not your presence. No one waits for you.Stay one day longer with me. They who goFeel not the pain of parting; it is theyWho stay behind that suffer. I was thinkingBut yesterday how like and how unlikeHave been, and are, our destinies. Your husband,The good Vespasian, an old man, who seemedA father to you rather than a husband,Died in your arms; but mine, in all the flowerAnd promise of his youth, was taken from meAs by a rushing wind. The breath of battleBreathed on him, and I saw his face no more,Save as in dreams it haunts me. As our loveWas for these men, so is our sorrow for them.Yours a child's sorrow, smiling through its tears;But mine the grief of an impassioned woman,Who drank her life up in one draught of love.
JULIA. Behold this locket. This is the white hair Of my Vespasian. This is the flower-of-love, This amaranth, and beneath it the device Non moritura. Thus my heart remains True to his memory; and the ancient castle, Where we have lived together, where he died, Is dear to me as Ischia is to you.
VITTORIA. I did not mean to chide you.
JULIA.Let your heartFind, if it can, some poor apologyFor one who is too young, and feels too keenlyThe joy of life, to give up all her daysTo sorrow for the dead. While I am trueTo the remembrance of the man I lovedAnd mourn for still, I do not make a showOf all the grief I feel, nor live secludedAnd, like Veronica da Gambara,Drape my whole house in mourning, and drive forthIn coach of sable drawn by sable horses,As if I were a corpse. Ah, one to-dayIs worth for me a thousand yesterdays.
VITTORIA. Dear Julia! Friendship has its jealousies As well as love. Who waits for you at Fondi?
JULIA. A friend of mine and yours; a friend and friar. You have at Naples your Fra Bernadino; And I at Fondi have my Fra Bastiano, The famous artist, who has come from Rome To paint my portrait. That is not a sin.
VITTORIA. Only a vanity.
JULIA.He painted yours.
VITTORIA. Do not call up to me those days departed When I was young, and all was bright about me, And the vicissitudes of life were things But to be read of in old histories, Though as pertaining unto me or mine Impossible. Ah, then I dreamed your dreams, And now, grown older, I look back and see They were illusions.
JULIA.Yet without illusionsWhat would our lives become, what we ourselves?Dreams or illusions, call them what you will,They lift us from the commonplace of lifeTo better things.
VITTORIA.Are there no brighter dreams,No higher aspirations, than the wishTo please and to be pleased?
JULIA.For you there are;I am no saint; I feel the world we live inComes before that which is to be here after,And must be dealt with first.
VITTORIA.But in what way?
JULIA. Let the soft wind that wafts to us the odor Of orange blossoms, let the laughing sea And the bright sunshine bathing all the world, Answer the question.
VITTORIA.And for whom is meantThis portrait that you speak of?
JULIA.For my friendThe Cardinal Ippolito.
VITTORIA.For him?
JULIA Yes, for Ippolito the Magnificent. 'T is always flattering to a woman's pride To be admired by one whom all admire.
VITTORIA. Ah, Julia, she that makes herself a dove Is eaten by the hawk. Be on your guard, He is a Cardinal; and his adoration Should be elsewhere directed.
JULIA.You forgetThe horror of that night, when Barbarossa,The Moorish corsair, landed on our coastTo seize me for the Sultan Soliman;How in the dead of night, when all were sleeping,He scaled the castle wall; how I escaped,And in my night-dress, mounting a swift steed,Fled to the mountains, and took refuge thereAmong the brigands. Then of all my friendsThe Cardinal Ippolito was firstTo come with his retainers to my rescue.Could I refuse the only boon he askedAt such a time, my portrait?
VITTORIA.I have heardStrange stories of the splendors of his palace,And how, apparelled like a Spanish Prince,He rides through Rome with a long retinueOf Ethiopians and NumidiansAnd Turks and Tartars, in fantastic dresses,Making a gallant show. Is this the wayA Cardinal should live?
JULIA.He is so young;Hardly of age, or little more than that;Beautiful, generous, fond of arts and letters,A poet, a musician, and a scholar;Master of many languages, and a playerOn many instruments. In Rome, his palaceIs the asylum of all men distinguishedIn art or science, and all FlorentinesEscaping from the tyranny of his cousin,Duke Alessandro.
VITTORIA.I have seen his portrait,Painted by Titian. You have painted itIn brighter colors.
JULIA.And my Cardinal,At Itri, in the courtyard of his palace,Keeps a tame lion!
VITTORIA.And so counterfeitsSt. Mark, the Evangelist!
JULIA.Ah, your tame lionIs Michael Angelo.
VITTORIA.You speak a nameThat always thrills me with a noble sound,As of a trumpet! Michael Angelo!A lion all men fear and none can tame;A man that all men honor, and the modelThat all should follow; one who works and prays,For work is prayer, and consecrates his lifeTo the sublime ideal of his art,Till art and life are one; a man who holdsSuch place in all men's thoughts, that when they speakOf great things done, or to be done, his nameIs ever on their lips.
JULIA.You too can paintThe portrait of your hero, and in colorsBrighter than Titian's; I might warn you alsoAgainst the dangers that beset your path;But I forbear.
VITTORIA.If I were made of marble,Of Fior di Persico or Pavonazzo,He might admire me: being but flesh and blood,I am no more to him than other women;That is, am nothing.
JULIA.Does he ride through RomeUpon his little mule, as he was wont,With his slouched hat, and boots of Cordovan,As when I saw him last?
VITTORIA.Pray do not jest.I cannot couple with his noble nameA trivial word! Look, how the setting sunLights up Castel-a-mare and Sorrento,And changes Capri to a purple cloud!And there Vesuvius with its plume of smoke,And the great city stretched upon the shoreAs in a dream!
JULIA.Parthenope the Siren!
VITTORIA. And yon long line of lights, those sunlit windows Blaze like the torches carried in procession To do her honor! It is beautiful!
JULIA. I have no heart to feel the beauty of it! My feet are weary, pacing up and down These level flags, and wearier still my thoughts Treading the broken pavement of the Past, It is too sad. I will go in and rest, And make me ready for to-morrow's journey.
VITTORIA.I will go with you; for I would not loseOne hour of your dear presence. 'T is enoughOnly to be in the same room with you.I need not speak to you, nor hear you speak;If I but see you, I am satisfied.[They go in.
MICHAEL ANGELO's Studio. He is at work on the cartoon of the Last Judgment.
MICHAEL ANGELO. Why did the Pope and his ten Cardinals Come here to lay this heavy task upon me? Were not the paintings on the Sistine ceiling Enough for them? They saw the Hebrew leader Waiting, and clutching his tempestuous beard, But heeded not. The bones of Julius Shook in their sepulchre. I heard the sound; They only heard the sound of their own voices.
Are there no other artists here in Rome To do this work, that they must needs seek me? Fra Bastian, my Era Bastian, might have done it; But he is lost to art. The Papal Seals, Like leaden weights upon a dead man's eyes, Press down his lids; and so the burden falls On Michael Angelo, Chief Architect And Painter of the Apostolic Palace. That is the title they cajole me with, To make me do their work and leave my own; But having once begun, I turn not back. Blow, ye bright angels, on your golden trumpets To the four corners of the earth, and wake The dead to judgment! Ye recording angels, Open your books and read? Ye dead awake! Rise from your graves, drowsy and drugged with death, As men who suddenly aroused from sleep Look round amazed, and know not where they are!
In happy hours, when the imagination Wakes like a wind at midnight, and the soul Trembles in all its leaves, it is a joy To be uplifted on its wings, and listen To the prophetic voices in the air That call us onward. Then the work we do Is a delight, and the obedient hand Never grows weary. But how different is it En the disconsolate, discouraged hours, When all the wisdom of the world appears As trivial as the gossip of a nurse In a sick-room, and all our work seems useless,
What is it guides my hand, what thoughts possess me, That I have drawn her face among the angels, Where she will be hereafter? O sweet dreams, That through the vacant chambers of my heart Walk in the silence, as familiar phantoms Frequent an ancient house, what will ye with me? 'T is said that Emperors write their names in green When under age, but when of age in purple. So Love, the greatest Emperor of them all, Writes his in green at first, but afterwards In the imperial purple of our blood. First love or last love,—which of these two passions Is more omnipotent? Which is more fair, The star of morning or the evening star? The sunrise or the sunset of the heart? The hour when we look forth to the unknown, And the advancing day consumes the shadows, Or that when all the landscape of our lives Lies stretched behind us, and familiar places Gleam in the distance, and sweet memories Rise like a tender haze, and magnify The objects we behold, that soon must vanish?
What matters it to me, whose countenanceIs like the Laocoon's, full of pain; whose foreheadIs a ploughed harvest-field, where three-score yearsHave sown in sorrow and have reaped in anguish;To me, the artisan, to whom all womenHave been as if they were not, or at mostA sudden rush of pigeons in the air,A flutter of wings, a sound, and then a silence?I am too old for love; I am too oldTo flatter and delude myself with visionsOf never-ending friendship with fair women,Imaginations, fantasies, illusions,In which the things that cannot be take shape,And seem to be, and for the moment are.[Convent bells ring.
Distant and near and low and loud the bells, Dominican, Benedictine, and Franciscan, Jangle and wrangle in their airy towers, Discordant as the brotherhoods themselves In their dim cloisters. The descending sun Seems to caress the city that he loves, And crowns it with the aureole of a saint. I will go forth and breathe the air a while.
A Chapel in the Church of San Silvestra on Monte Cavallo.
VITTORIA COLONNA, CLAUDIO TOLOMMEI, and others.
VITTORIA. Here let us rest a while, until the crowd Has left the church. I have already sent For Michael Angelo to join us here.
MESSER CLAUDIO. After Fra Bernardino's wise discourse On the Pauline Epistles, certainly Some words of Michael Angelo on Art Were not amiss, to bring us back to earth.
MICHAEL ANGELO, at the door. How like a Saint or Goddess she appears; Diana or Madonna, which I know not! In attitude and aspect formed to be At once the artist's worship and despair!
VITTORIA. Welcome, Maestro. We were waiting for you.
MICHAEL ANGELO. I met your messenger upon the way, And hastened hither.
VITTORIA.It is kind of youTo come to us, who linger here like gossipsWasting the afternoon in idle talk.These are all friends of mine and friends of yours.
MICHAEL ANGELO. If friends of yours, then are they friends of mine. Pardon me, gentlemen. But when I entered I saw but the Marchesa.
VITTORIA.Take this seatBetween me and Ser Claudio Tolommei,Who still maintains that our Italian tongueShould be called Tuscan. But for that offenceWe will not quarrel with him.
MICHAEL ANGELO.Eccellenza—
VITTORIA. Ser Claudio has banished Eccellenza And all such titles from the Tuscan tongue.
MESSER CLAUDIO. 'T is the abuse of them and not the use I deprecate.
MICHAEL ANGELO.The use or the abuseIt matters not. Let them all go together,As empty phrases and frivolities,And common as gold-lace upon the collarOf an obsequious lackey.
VITTORIA.That may be,But something of politeness would go with them;We should lose something of the stately mannersOf the old school.
MESSER CLAUDIO.Undoubtedly.
VITTORlA.But thatIs not what occupies my thoughts at present,Nor why I sent for you, Messer Michele.It was to counsel me. His HolinessHas granted me permission, long desired,To build a convent in this neighborhood,Where the old tower is standing, from whose topNero looked down upon the burning city.
MICHAEL ANGELO. It is an inspiration!
VITTORIA.I am doubtfulHow I shall build; how large to make the convent,And which way fronting.
MICHAEL ANGELO.Ah, to build, to build!That is the noblest art of all the arts.Painting and sculpture are but images,Are merely shadows cast by outward thingsOn stone or canvas, having in themselvesNo separate existence. Architecture,Existing in itself, and not in seemingA something it is not, surpasses themAs substance shadow. Long, long years ago,Standing one morning near the Baths of Titus,I saw the statue of LaocoonRise from its grave of centuries, like a ghostWrithing in pain; and as it tore awayThe knotted serpents from its limbs, I heard,Or seemed to hear, the cry of agonyFrom its white, parted lips. And still I marvelAt the three Rhodian artists, by whose handsThis miracle was wrought. Yet he beholdsFar nobler works who looks upon the ruinsOf temples in the Forum here in Rome.If God should give me power in my old ageTo build for Him a temple half as grandAs those were in their glory, I should countMy age more excellent than youth itself,And all that I have hitherto accomplishedAs only vanity.
VITTORIA.I understand you.Art is the gift of God, and must be usedUnto His glory. That in art is highestWhich aims at this. When St. Hilarion blessedThe horses of Italicus, they wonThe race at Gaza, for his benedictionO'erpowered all magic; and the people shoutedThat Christ had conquered Marnas. So that artWhich bears the consecration and the sealOf holiness upon it will prevailOver all others. Those few words of yoursInspire me with new confidence to build.What think you? The old walls might serve, perhaps,Some purpose still. The tower can hold the bells.
MICHAEL ANGELO. If strong enough.
VITTORIA.If not, it can be strengthened.
MICHAEL ANGELO. I see no bar nor drawback to this building, And on our homeward way, if it shall please you, We may together view the site.
VITTORIA.I thank you.I did not venture to request so much.
MICHAEL ANGELO. Let us now go to the old walls you spake of, Vossignoria—
VITTORIA.What, again, Maestro?
MICHAEL ANGELO. Pardon me, Messer Claudio, if once more I use the ancient courtesies of speech. I am too old to change.
A richly furnished apartment in the Palace of CARDINAL IPPOLITO. Night.
JACOPO NARDI, an old man, alone.
NARDI. I am bewildered. These Numidian slaves, In strange attire; these endless ante-chambers; This lighted hall, with all its golden splendors, Pictures, and statues! Can this be the dwelling Of a disciple of that lowly Man Who had not where to lay his head? These statues Are not of Saints; nor is this a Madonna, This lovely face, that with such tender eyes Looks down upon me from the painted canvas. My heart begins to fail me. What can he Who lives in boundless luxury at Rome Care for the imperilled liberties of Florence, Her people, her Republic? Ah, the rich Feel not the pangs of banishment. All doors Are open to them, and all hands extended, The poor alone are outcasts; they who risked All they possessed for liberty, and lost; And wander through the world without a friend, Sick, comfortless, distressed, unknown, uncared for.
Enter CARDINAL HIPPOLITO, in Spanish cloak and slouched hat.
IPPOLITO. I pray you pardon me that I have kept you Waiting so long alone.
NARDI.I wait to seeThe Cardinal.
IPPOLITO.I am the Cardinal.And you?
NARDI.Jacopo Nardi.
IPPOLITO.You are welcomeI was expecting you. Philippo StrozziHad told me of your coming.
NARDI.'T was his sonThat brought me to your door.
IPPOLITO.Pray you, be seated.You seem astonished at the garb I wear,But at my time of life, and with my habits,The petticoats of a Cardinal would be—Troublesome; I could neither ride nor walk,Nor do a thousand things, if I were dressedLike an old dowager. It were putting wineYoung as the young Astyanax into gobletsAs old as Priam.
NARDI.Oh, your EminenceKnows best what you should wear.
IPPOLITO.Dear Messer Nardi,You are no stranger to me. I have readYour excellent translation of the booksOf Titus Livius, the historianOf Rome, and model of all historiansThat shall come after him. It does you honor;But greater honor still the love you bearTo Florence, our dear country, and whose annalsI hope your hand will write, in happier daysThan we now see.
NARDI.Your Eminence will pardonThe lateness of the hour.
IPPOLITO.The hours I count notAs a sun-dial; but am like a clock,That tells the time as well by night as day.So no excuse. I know what brings you here.You come to speak of Florence.
NARDI.And her woes.
IPPOLITO. The Duke, my cousin, the black Alessandro, Whose mother was a Moorish slave, that fed The sheep upon Lorenzo's farm, still lives And reigns.
NARDI.Alas, that such a scourgeShould fall on such a city!
IPPOLITO.When he dies,The Wild Boar in the gardens of Lorenzo,The beast obscene, should be the monumentOf this bad man.
NARDI.He walks the streets at nightWith revellers, insulting honest men.No house is sacred from his lusts. The conventsAre turned by him to brothels, and the honorOf women and all ancient pious customsAre quite forgotten now. The officesOf the Priori and GonfalonieriHave been abolished. All the magistratesAre now his creatures. Liberty is dead.The very memory of all honest livingIs wiped away, and even our Tuscan tongueCorrupted to a Lombard dialect.
IPPOLITO. And worst of all his impious hand has broken The Martinella,—our great battle bell, That, sounding through three centuries, has led The Florentines to victory,—lest its voice Should waken in their souls some memory Of far-off times of glory.
NARDI.What a changeTen little years have made! We all rememberThose better days, when Niccola Capponi,The Gonfaloniere, from the windowsOf the Old Palace, with the blast of trumpets,Proclaimed to the inhabitants that ChristWas chosen King of Florence; and alreadyChrist is dethroned, and slain, and in his steadReigns Lucifer! Alas, alas, for Florence!
IPPOLITO. Lilies with lilies, said Savonarola; Florence and France! But I say Florence only, Or only with the Emperor's hand to help us In sweeping out the rubbish.
NARDI.Little hopeOf help is there from him. He has betrothedHis daughter Margaret to this shameless Duke.What hope have we from such an Emperor?
IPPOLITO. Baccio Valori and Philippo Strozzi, Once the Duke's friends and intimates are with us, And Cardinals Salvati and Ridolfi. We shall soon see, then, as Valori says, Whether the Duke can best spare honest men, Or honest men the Duke.
NARDI.We have determinedTo send ambassadors to Spain, and layOur griefs before the Emperor, though I fearMore than I hope.
IPPOLITO.The Emperor is busyWith this new war against the Algerines,And has no time to listen to complaintsFrom our ambassadors; nor will I trust them,But go myself. All is in readinessFor my departure, and to-morrow morningI shall go down to Itri, where I meetDante da Castiglione and some others,Republicans and fugitives from Florence,And then take ship at Gaeta, and goTo join the Emperor in his new crusadeAgainst the Turk. I shall have time enoughAnd opportunity to plead our cause.
NARDI, rising. It is an inspiration, and I hail it As of good omen. May the power that sends it Bless our beloved country, and restore Its banished citizens. The soul of Florence Is now outside its gates. What lies within Is but a corpse, corrupted and corrupting. Heaven help us all, I will not tarry longer, For you have need of rest. Good-night.
IPPOLITO.Good-night.
Enter FRA SEBASTIANO; Turkish attendants.
IPPOLITO. Fra Bastiano, how your portly presence Contrasts with that of the spare Florentine Who has just left me!
FRA SEBASTIANO.As we passed each other,I saw that he was weeping.
IPPOLITO.Poor old man!
FRA SEBASTIANO. Who is he?
IPPOLITO.Jacopo Nardi. A brave soul;One of the Fuoruseiti, and the bestAnd noblest of them all; but he has made meSad with his sadness. As I look on youMy heart grows lighter. I behold a manWho lives in an ideal world, apartFrom all the rude collisions of our life,In a calm atmosphere.
FRA SEBASTIANO.Your EminenceIs surely jesting. If you knew the lifeOf artists as I know it, you might thinkFar otherwise.
IPPOLITO.But wherefore should I jest?The world of art is an ideal world,—The world I love, and that I fain would live in;So speak to me of artists and of art,Of all the painters, sculptors, and musiciansThat now illustrate Rome.
FRA SEBASTIANO.Of the musicians,I know but Goudimel, the brave maestroAnd chapel-master of his Holiness,Who trains the Papal choir.
IPPOLITO.In church this morning,I listened to a mass of Goudimel,Divinely chanted. In the Incarnatus,In lieu of Latin words, the tenor sangWith infinite tenderness, in plain Italian,A Neapolitan love-song.
FRA SEBASTIANO.You amaze me.Was it a wanton song?
IPPOLITO.Not a divine one.I am not over-scrupulous, as you know,In word or deed, yet such a song as that.Sung by the tenor of the Papal choir,And in a Papal mass, seemed out of place;There's something wrong in it.
FRA SEBASTIANO.There's something wrongIn everything. We cannot make the worldGo right. 'T is not my business to reformThe Papal choir.
IPPOLITO.Nor mine, thank Heaven.Then tell me of the artists.
FRA SEBASTIANO.Naming oneI name them all; for there is only one.His name is Messer Michael Angelo.All art and artists of the present dayCentre in him.
IPPOLITO.You count yourself as nothing!
FRA SEBASTIANO. Or less than nothing, since I am at best Only a portrait-painter; one who draws With greater or less skill, as best he may, The features of a face.
IPPOLITO.And you have hadThe honor, nay, the glory, of portrayingJulia Gonzaga! Do you count as nothingA privilege like that? See there the portraitRebuking you with its divine expression.Are you not penitent? He whose skilful handPainted that lovely picture has not rightTo vilipend the art of portrait-painting.But what of Michael Angelo?
FRA SEBASTIANO.But latelyStrolling together down the crowded Corso,We stopped, well pleased, to see your EminencePass on an Arab steed, a noble creature,Which Michael Angelo, who is a loverOf all things beautiful, especiallyWhen they are Arab horses, much admired,And could not praise enough.
IPPOLITO, to an attendant.Hassan, to-morrow,When I am gone, but not till I am gone,—Be careful about that,—take BarbarossaTo Messer Michael Angelo, the sculptor,Who lives there at Macello dei Corvi,Near to the Capitol; and take besidesSome ten mule-loads of provender, and sayYour master sends them to him as a present.
FRA SEBASTIANO. A princely gift. Though Michael Angelo Refuses presents from his Holiness, Yours he will not refuse.
IPPOLITO.You think him likeThymoetes, who received the wooden horseInto the walls of Troy. That book of VirgilHave I translated in Italian verse,And shall, some day, when we have leisure for it,Be pleased to read you. When I speak of TroyI am reminded of another townAnd of a lovelier Helen, our dear CountessJulia Gonzaga. You remember, surely,The adventure with the corsair Barbarossa,And all that followed?
FRA SEBASTIANO.A most strange adventure;A tale as marvellous and full of wonderAs any in Boccaccio or Sacchetti;Almost incredible!
IPPOLITO.Were I a painterI should not want a better theme than that:The lovely lady fleeing through the nightIn wild disorder; and the brigands' campWith the red fire-light on their swarthy faces.Could you not paint it for me?
FRA SEBASTIANO.No, not I.It is not in my line.
IPPOLITO.Then you shall paintThe portrait of the corsair, when we bring himA prisoner chained to Naples: for I feelSomething like admiration for a manWho dared this strange adventure.
FRA SEBASTIANO.I will do it.But catch the corsair first.
IPPOLITO.You may beginTo-morrow with the sword. Hassan, come hither;Bring me the Turkish scimitar that hangsBeneath the picture yonder. Now unsheathe it.'T is a Damascus blade; you see the inscriptionIn Arabic: La Allah illa Allah,—There is no God but God.
FRA SEBASTIANO.How beautifulIn fashion and in finish! It is perfect.The Arsenal of Venice can not boastA finer sword.
IPPOLITO.You like it? It is yours.
FRA SEBASTIANO. You do not mean it.
IPPOLITO.I am not a Spaniard,To say that it is yours and not to mean it.I have at Itri a whole armoryFull of such weapons. When you paint the portraitOf Barbarossa, it will be of use.You have not been rewarded as you should beFor painting the Gonzaga. Throw this baubleInto the scale, and make the balance equal.Till then suspend it in your studio;You artists like such trifles.
FRA SEBASTIANO.I will keep itIn memory of the donor. Many thanks.
IPPOLITO. Fra Bastian, I am growing tired of Rome, The old dead city, with the old dead people; Priests everywhere, like shadows on a wall, And morning, noon, and night the ceaseless sound Of convent bells. I must be gone from here; Though Ovid somewhere says that Rome is worthy To be the dwelling-place of all the Gods, I must be gone from here. To-morrow morning I start for Itri, and go thence by sea To join the Emperor, who is making war Upon the Algerines; perhaps to sink Some Turkish galleys, and bring back in chains The famous corsair. Thus would I avenge The beautiful Gonzaga.
FRA SEBASTIANO.An achievementWorthy of Charlemagne, or of Orlando.Berni and Ariosto both shall addA canto to their poems, and describe youAs Furioso and Innamorato.Now I must say good-night.
IPPOLITO.You must not go;First you shall sup with me. My seneschalGiovan Andrea dal Borgo a San Sepolcro,—I like to give the whole sonorous name,It sounds so like a verse of the Aeneid,—Has brought me eels fresh from the Lake of Fondi,And Lucrine oysters cradled in their shells:These, with red Fondi wine, the Caecu banThat Horace speaks of, under a hundred keysKept safe, until the heir of PosthumusShall stain the pavement with it, make a feastFit for Lucullus, or Fra Bastian even;So we will go to supper, and be merry.
FRA SEBASTIANO. Beware! I Remember that Bolsena's eels And Vernage wine once killed a Pope of Rome!
IPPOLITO. 'T was a French Pope; and then so long ago; Who knows?—perhaps the story is not true.
Room in the Palace of JULIA GONZAGA. Night.
JULIA GONZAGA, GIOVANNI VALDESSO.
JULIA. Do not go yet.
VALDESSO.The night is far advanced;I fear to stay too late, and weary youWith these discussions.
JULIA.I have much to say.I speak to you, Valdesso, with that franknessWhich is the greatest privilege of friendship.—Speak as I hardly would to my confessor,Such is my confidence in you.
VALDESSO.Dear CountessIf loyalty to friendship be a claimUpon your confidence, then I may claim it.
JULIA. Then sit again, and listen unto things That nearer are to me than life itself.
VALDESSO. In all things I am happy to obey you, And happiest then when you command me most.
JULIA. Laying aside all useless rhetoric, That is superfluous between us two, I come at once unto the point and say, You know my outward life, my rank and fortune; Countess of Fondi, Duchess of Trajetto, A widow rich and flattered, for whose hand In marriage princes ask, and ask it only To be rejected. All the world can offer Lies at my feet. If I remind you of it, It is not in the way of idle boasting, But only to the better understanding Of what comes after.
VALDESSO.God hath given you alsoBeauty and intellect; and the signal graceTo lead a spotless life amid temptations,That others yield to.
JULIA.But the inward life,—That you know not; 't is known but to myself,And is to me a mystery and a pain.A soul disquieted, and ill at ease,A mind perplexed with doubts and apprehensions,A heart dissatisfied with all around me,And with myself, so that sometimes I weep,Discouraged and disgusted with the world.
VALDESSO. Whene'er we cross a river at a ford, If we would pass in safety, we must keep Our eyes fixed steadfast on the shore beyond, For if we cast them on the flowing stream, The head swims with it; so if we would cross The running flood of things here in the world, Our souls must not look down, but fix their sight On the firm land beyond.
JULIA.I comprehend you.You think I am too worldly; that my headSwims with the giddying whirl of life about me.Is that your meaning?
VALDESSO.Yes; your meditationsAre more of this world and its vanitiesThan of the world to come.
JULIA.Between the twoI am confused.
VALDESSO.Yet have I seen you listenEnraptured when Fra Bernardino preachedOf faith and hope and charity.
JULIA.I listen,But only as to music without meaning.It moves me for the moment, and I thinkHow beautiful it is to be a saint,As dear Vittoria is; but I am weakAnd wayward, and I soon fall back againTo my old ways, so very easily.There are too many week-days for one Sunday.
VALDESSO. Then take the Sunday with you through the week, And sweeten with it all the other days.
JULIA. In part I do so; for to put a stop To idle tongues, what men might say of me If I lived all alone here in my palace, And not from a vocation that I feel For the monastic life, I now am living With Sister Caterina at the convent Of Santa Chiara, and I come here only On certain days, for my affairs, or visits Of ceremony, or to be with friends. For I confess, to live among my friends Is Paradise to me; my Purgatory Is living among people I dislike. And so I pass my life in these two worlds, This palace and the convent.
VALDESSO.It was thenThe fear of man, and not the love of God,That led you to this step. Why will you notGive all your heart to God?
JULIA.If God commands it,Wherefore hath He not made me capableOf doing for Him what I wish to doAs easily as I could offer HimThis jewel from my hand, this gown I wear,Or aught else that is mine?
VALDESSO.The hindrance liesIn that original sin, by which all fell.
JULIA. Ah me, I cannot bring my troubled mind To wish well to that Adam, our first parent, Who by his sin lost Paradise for us, And brought such ills upon us.
VALDESSO.We ourselves,When we commit a sin, lose Paradise,As much as he did. Let us think of this,And how we may regain it.