JULIA.Teach me, then,To harmonize the discord of my life,And stop the painful jangle of these wires.VALDESSO. That is a task impossible, until You tune your heart-strings to a higher key Than earthly melodies.JULIA.How shall I do it?Point out to me the way of this perfection,And I will follow you; for you have madeMy soul enamored with it, and I cannotRest satisfied until I find it out.But lead me privately, so that the worldHear not my steps; I would not give occasionFor talk among the people.VALDESSO.Now at lastI understand you fully. Then, what needIs there for us to beat about the bush?I know what you desire of me.JULIA.What rudeness!If you already know it, why not tell me?VALDESSO. Because I rather wait for you to ask it With your own lips.JULIA.Do me the kindness, then,To speak without reserve; and with all frankness,If you divine the truth, will I confess it.VALDESSO. I am content.JULIA.Then speak.VALDESSO.You would be freeFrom the vexatious thoughts that come and goThrough your imagination, and would have mePoint out some royal road and lady-likeWhich you may walk in, and not wound your feet;You would attain to the divine perfection,And yet not turn your back upon the world;You would possess humility within,But not reveal it in your outward actions;You would have patience, but without the rudeOccasions that require its exercise;You would despise the world, but in such fashionThe world should not despise you in return;Would clothe the soul with all the Christian graces,Yet not despoil the body of its gauds;Would feed the soul with spiritual food,Yet not deprive the body of its feasts;Would seem angelic in the sight of God,Yet not too saint-like in the eyes of men;In short, would lead a holy Christian lifeIn such a way that even your nearest friendWould not detect therein one circumstanceTo show a change from what it was before.Have I divined your secret?JULIA.You have drawnThe portrait of my inner self as trulyAs the most skilful painter ever paintedA human face.VALDESSO.This warrants me in sayingYou think you can win heaven by compromise,And not by verdict.JULIAYou have often told meThat a bad compromise was better evenThan a good verdict.VALDESSO.Yes, in suits at law;Not in religion. With the human soulThere is no compromise. By faith aloneCan man be justified.JULIA.Hush, dear Valdesso;That is a heresy. Do not, I pray you,Proclaim it from the house-top, but preserve itAs something precious, hidden in your heart,As I, who half believe and tremble at it.VALDESSO. I must proclaim the truth.JULIA.Enthusiast!Why must you? You imperil both yourselfAnd friends by your imprudence. Pray, be patient.You have occasion now to show that virtueWhich you lay stress upon. Let us returnTo our lost pathway. Show me by what stepsI shall walk in it.[Convent bells are heard.VALDESSO.Hark! the convent bellsAre ringing; it is midnight; I must leave you.And yet I linger. Pardon me, dear Countess,Since you to-night have made me your confessor,If I so far may venture, I will warn youUpon one point.JULIA.What is it? Speak, I pray you,For I have no concealments in my conduct;All is as open as the light of day.What is it you would warn me of?VALDESSO.Your friendshipWith Cardinal Ippolito.JULIA.What is thereTo cause suspicion or alarm in that,More than in friendships that I entertainWith you and others? I ne'er sat with himAlone at night, as I am sitting nowWith you, Valdesso.VALDESSO.Pardon me; the portraitThat Fra Bastiano painted was for him.Is that quite prudent?JULIA.That is the same questionVittoria put to me, when I last saw her.I make you the same answer. That was notA pledge of love, but of pure gratitude.Recall the adventure of that dreadful nightWhen Barbarossa with two thousand MoorsLanded upon the coast, and in the darknessAttacked my castle. Then, without delay,The Cardinal came hurrying down from RomeTo rescue and protect me. Was it wrongThat in an hour like that I did not weighToo nicely this or that, but granted himA boon that pleased him, and that flattered me?VALDESSO. Only beware lest, in disguise of friendship Another corsair, worse than Barbarossa, Steal in and seize the castle, not by storm But strategy. And now I take my leave.JULIA.Farewell; but ere you go look forth and seeHow night hath hushed the clamor and the stirOf the tumultuous streets. The cloudless moonRoofs the whole city as with tiles of silver;The dim, mysterious sea in silence sleeps;And straight into the air Vesuvius liftsHis plume of smoke. How beautiful it is![Voices in the street.GIOVAN ANDREA. Poisoned at Itri.ANOTHER VOICE.Poisoned? Who is poisoned?GIOVAN ANDREA.The Cardinal Ippolito, my master.Call it malaria. It was sudden.[Julia swoons.V.VITTORIA COLONNAA room in the Torre Argentina.VITTORIA COLONNA and JULIA GONZAGA.VITTORIA. Come to my arms and to my heart once more; My soul goes out to meet you and embrace you, For we are of the sisterhood of sorrow. I know what you have suffered.JULIA.Name it not.Let me forget it.VITTORIA.I will say no more.Let me look at you. What a joy it isTo see your face, to hear your voice again!You bring with you a breath as of the morn,A memory of the far-off happy daysWhen we were young. When did you come from Fondi?JULIA. I have not been at Fondi since—VITTORIA.Ah me!You need not speak the word; I understand you.JULIA. I came from Naples by the lovely valley The Terra di Lavoro.VITTORIA.And you find meBut just returned from a long journey northward.I have been staying with that noble womanRenee of France, the Duchess of Ferrara.JULIA. Oh, tell me of the Duchess. I have heard Flaminio speak her praises with such warmth That I am eager to hear more of her And of her brilliant court.VITTORIA.You shall hear allBut first sit down and listen patientlyWhile I confess myself.JULIA.What deadly sinHave you committed?VITTORIA.Not a sin; a follyI chid you once at Ischia, when you told meThat brave Fra Bastian was to paint your portrait.JULIA Well I remember it.VITTORIA.Then chide me now,For I confess to something still more strange.Old as I am, I have at last consentedTo the entreaties and the supplicationsOf Michael Angelo—JULIATo marry him?VITTORIA. I pray you, do not jest with me! You now, Or you should know, that never such a thought Entered my breast. I am already married. The Marquis of Pescara is my husband, And death has not divorced us.JULIA.Pardon me.Have I offended you?VITTORIA.No, but have hurt me.Unto my buried lord I give myself,Unto my friend the shadow of myself,My portrait. It is not from vanity,But for the love I bear him.JULIA.I rejoiceTo hear these words. Oh, this will be a portraitWorthy of both of you! [A knock.VITTORIA.Hark! He is coming.JULIA. And shall I go or stay?VITTORIA.By all means, stay.The drawing will be better for your presence;You will enliven me.JULIA.I shall not speak;The presence of great men doth take from meAll power of speech. I only gaze at themIn silent wonder, as if they were gods,Or the inhabitants of some other planet.Enter MICHAEL ANGELO.VITTORIA. Come in.MICHAEL ANGELO.I fear my visit is ill-timed;I interrupt you.VITTORIA.No; this is a friendOf yours as well as mine,—the Lady Julia,The Duchess of Trajetto.MICHAEL ANGELO to JULIA.I salute you.'T is long since I have seen your face, my lady;Pardon me if I say that having seen it,One never can forget it.JULIA.You are kindTo keep me in your memory.MICHAEL ANGELO.It isThe privilege of age to speak with frankness.You will not be offended when I sayThat never was your beauty more divine.JULIA. When Michael Angelo condescends to flatter Or praise me, I am proud, and not offended.VITTORIA. Now this is gallantry enough for one; Show me a little.MICHAEL ANGELO.Ah, my gracious lady,You know I have not words to speak your praise.I think of you in silence. You concealYour manifold perfections from all eyes,And make yourself more saint-like day by day.And day by day men worship you the wore.But now your hour of martyrdom has come.You know why I am here.VITTORIA.Ah yes, I know it,And meet my fate with fortitude. You find meSurrounded by the labors of your hands:The Woman of Samaria at the Well,The Mater Dolorosa, and the ChristUpon the Cross, beneath which you have writtenThose memorable words of Alighieri,"Men have forgotten how much blood it costs."MICHAEL ANGELO. And now I come to add one labor more, If you will call that labor which is pleasure, And only pleasure.VITTORIA.How shall I be seated?MICHAEL ANGELO, opening his portfolio.Just as you are. The light falls well upon you.VITTORIA. I am ashamed to steal the time from you That should be given to the Sistine Chapel. How does that work go on?MICHAEL ANGELO, drawing.But tardily.Old men work slowly. Brain and hand alikeAre dull and torpid. To die young is best,And not to be remembered as old menTottering about in their decrepitude.VITTORIA. My dear Maestro! have you, then, forgotten The story of Sophocles in his old age?MICHAEL ANGELO. What story is it?VITTORIA.When his sons accused him,Before the Areopagus, of dotage,For all defence, he read there to his JudgesThe Tragedy of Oedipus Coloneus,—The work of his old age.MICHAEL ANGELO.'T is an illusionA fabulous story, that will lead old menInto a thousand follies and conceits.VITTORIA. So you may show to cavilers your painting Of the Last Judgment in the Sistine Chapel.MICHAEL ANGELO. Now you and Lady Julia shall resume The conversation that I interrupted.VITTORIA. It was of no great import; nothing more Nor less than my late visit to Ferrara, And what I saw there in the ducal palace. Will it not interrupt you?MICHAEL ANGELO.Not the least.VITTORIA. Well, first, then, of Duke Ercole: a man Cold in his manners, and reserved and silent, And yet magnificent in all his ways; Not hospitable unto new ideas, But from state policy, and certain reasons Concerning the investiture of the duchy, A partisan of Rome, and consequently Intolerant of all the new opinions.JULIA. I should not like the Duke. These silent men, Who only look and listen, are like wells That have no water in them, deep and empty. How could the daughter of a king of France Wed such a duke?MICHAEL ANGELO.The men that women marryAnd why they marry them, will always beA marvel and a mystery to the world.VITTORIA. And then the Duchess,—how shall I describe her, Or tell the merits of that happy nature, Which pleases most when least it thinks of pleasing? Not beautiful, perhaps, in form and feature, Yet with an inward beauty, that shines through Each look and attitude and word and gesture; A kindly grace of manner and behavior, A something in her presence and her ways That makes her beautiful beyond the reach Of mere external beauty; and in heart So noble and devoted to the truth, And so in sympathy with all who strive After the higher life.JULIA. She draws me to her As much as her Duke Ercole repels me.VITTORIA. Then the devout and honorable women That grace her court, and make it good to be there; Francesca Bucyronia, the true-hearted, Lavinia della Rovere and the Orsini, The Magdalena and the Cherubina, And Anne de Parthenai, who sings so sweetly; All lovely women, full of noble thoughts And aspirations after noble things.JULIA. Boccaccio would have envied you such dames.VITTORIA. No; his Fiammettas and his Philomenas Are fitter company for Ser Giovanni; I fear he hardly would have comprehended The women that I speak of.MICHAEL ANGELO.Yet he wroteThe story of Griselda. That is somethingTo set down in his favor.VITTORIA.With these ladiesWas a young girl, Olympia Morate,Daughter of Fulvio, the learned scholar,Famous in all the universities.A marvellous child, who at the spinning wheel,And in the daily round of household cares,Hath learned both Greek and Latin; and is nowA favorite of the Duchess and companionOf Princess Anne. This beautiful young SapphoSometimes recited to us Grecian odesThat she had written, with a voice whose sadnessThrilled and o'ermastered me, and made me lookInto the future time, and ask myselfWhat destiny will be hers.JULIA.A sad one, surely.Frost kills the flowers that blossom out of season;And these precocious intellects portendA life of sorrow or an early death.VITTORIA. About the court were many learned men; Chilian Sinapius from beyond the Alps, And Celio Curione, and Manzolli, The Duke's physician; and a pale young man, Charles d'Espeville of Geneva, whom the Duchess Doth much delight to talk with and to read, For he hath written a book of Institutes The Duchess greatly praises, though some call it The Koran of the heretics.JULIA.And what poetsWere there to sing you madrigals, and praiseOlympia's eyes and Cherubina's tresses?VITTORIA. No; for great Ariosto is no more. The voice that filled those halls with melody Has long been hushed in death.JULIA.You should have madeA pilgrimage unto the poet's tomb,And laid a wreath upon it, for the wordsHe spake of you.VITTORIA.And of yourself no less,And of our master, Michael Angelo.MICHAEL ANGELO. Of me?VITTORIA.Have you forgotten that he calls youMichael, less man than angel, and divine?You are ungrateful.MICHAEL ANGELO.A mere play on words.That adjective he wanted for a rhyme,To match with Gian Bellino and Urbino.VITTORIA. Bernardo Tasso is no longer there, Nor the gay troubadour of Gascony, Clement Marot, surnamed by flatterers The Prince of Poets and the Poet of Princes, Who, being looked upon with much disfavor By the Duke Ercole, has fled to Venice.MICHAEL ANGELO. There let him stay with Pietro Aretino, The Scourge of Princes, also called Divine. The title is so common in our mouths, That even the Pifferari of Abruzzi, Who play their bag-pipes in the streets of Rome At the Epiphany, will bear it soon, And will deserve it better than some poets.VITTORIA. What bee hath stung you?MICHAEL ANGELO.One that makes no honey;One that comes buzzing in through every window,And stabs men with his sting. A bitter thoughtPassed through my mind, but it is gone again;I spake too hastily.JULIA.I pray you, show meWhat you have done.MICHAEL ANGELO.Not yet; it is not finished.PART SECONDIMONOLOGUEA room in MICHAEL ANGELO'S house.MICHAEL ANGELO. Fled to Viterbo, the old Papal city Where once an Emperor, humbled in his pride, Held the Pope's stirrup, as his Holiness Alighted from his mule! A fugitive From Cardinal Caraffa's hate, who hurls His thunders at the house of the Colonna, With endless bitterness!—Among the nuns In Santa Catarina's convent hidden, Herself in soul a nun! And now she chides me For my too frequent letters, that disturb Her meditations, and that hinder me And keep me from my work; now graciously She thanks me for the crucifix I sent her, And says that she will keep it: with one hand Inflicts a wound, and with the other heals it. [Reading."Profoundly I believed that God would grant you A supernatural faith to paint this Christ; I wished for that which I now see fulfilled So marvellously, exceeding all my wishes. Nor more could be desired, or even so much. And greatly I rejoice that you have made The angel on the right so beautiful; For the Archangel Michael will place you, You, Michael Angelo, on that new day Upon the Lord's right hand! And waiting that, How can I better serve you than to pray To this sweet Christ for you, and to beseech you To hold me altogether yours in all things."Well, I will write less often, or no more,But wait her coming. No one born in RomeCan live elsewhere; but he must pine for Rome,And must return to it. I, who am bornAnd bred a Tuscan and a Florentine,Feel the attraction, and I linger hereAs if I were a pebble in the pavementTrodden by priestly feet. This I endure,Because I breathe in Rome an atmosphereHeavy with odors of the laurel leavesThat crowned great heroes of the sword and pen,In ages past. I feel myself exaltedTo walk the streets in which a Virgil walked,Or Trajan rode in triumph; but far more,And most of all, because the great ColonnaBreathes the same air I breathe, and is to meAn inspiration. Now that she is gone,Rome is no longer Rome till she return.This feeling overmasters me. I know notIf it be love, this strong desire to beForever in her presence; but I knowThat I, who was the friend of solitude,And ever was best pleased when most alone,Now weary grow of my own company.For the first time old age seems lonely to me.[Opening the Divina Commedia.I turn for consolation to the leavesOf the great master of our Tuscan tongue,Whose words, like colored garnet-shirls in lava,Betray the heat in which they were engendered.A mendicant, he ate the bitter breadOf others, but repaid their meagre giftsWith immortality. In courts of princesHe was a by-word, and in streets of townsWas mocked by children, like the Hebrew prophet,Himself a prophet. I too know the cry,Go up, thou bald head! from a generationThat, wanting reverence, wanteth the best foodThe soul can feed on. There's not room enoughFor age and youth upon this little planet.Age must give way. There was not room enoughEven for this great poet. In his songI hear reverberate the gates of Florence,Closing upon him, never more to open;But mingled with the sound are melodiesCelestial from the gates of paradise.He came, and he is gone. The people knew notWhat manner of man was passing by their doors,Until he passed no more; but in his visionHe saw the torments and beatitudesOf souls condemned or pardoned, and hath leftBehind him this sublime Apocalypse.I strive in vain to draw here on the margin The face of Beatrice. It is not hers, But the Colonna's. Each hath his ideal, The image of some woman excellent, That is his guide. No Grecian art, nor Roman, Hath yet revealed such loveliness as hers.IIVITERBOVITTORIA COLONNA at the convent window.VITTORIA.Parting with friends is temporary death,As all death is. We see no more their faces,Nor hear their voices, save in memory;But messages of love give us assuranceThat we are not forgotten. Who shall sayThat from the world of spirits comes no greeting,No message of remembrance? It may beThe thoughts that visit us, we know not whence,Sudden as inspiration, are the whispersOf disembodied spirits, speaking to usAs friends, who wait outside a prison wall,Through the barred windows speak to those within.[A pause.As quiet as the lake that lies beneath me, As quiet as the tranquil sky above me, As quiet as a heart that beats no more, This convent seems. Above, below, all peace! Silence and solitude, the soul's best friends, Are with me here, and the tumultuous world Makes no more noise than the remotest planet. O gentle spirit, unto the third circle Of heaven among the blessed souls ascended, Who, living in the faith and dying for it, Have gone to their reward, I do not sigh For thee as being dead, but for myself That I am still alive. Turn those dear eyes, Once so benignant to me, upon mine, That open to their tears such uncontrolled And such continual issue. Still awhile Have patience; I will come to thee at last. A few more goings in and out these doors, A few more chimings of these convent bells, A few more prayers, a few more sighs and tears, And the long agony of this life will end, And I shall be with thee. If I am wanting To thy well-being, as thou art to mine, Have patience; I will come to thee at last. Ye minds that loiter in these cloister gardens, Or wander far above the city walls, Bear unto him this message, that I ever Or speak or think of him, or weep for him.By unseen hands uplifted in the light Of sunset, yonder solitary cloud Floats, with its white apparel blown abroad, And wafted up to heaven. It fades away, And melts into the air. Ah, would that I Could thus be wafted unto thee, Francesco, A cloud of white, an incorporeal spirit!IIIMICHAEL ANGELO AND BENVENUTO CELLINIMICHAEL ANGELO, BENVENUTO CELLINI in gay attire.BENVENUTO. A good day and good year to the divine Maestro Michael Angelo, the sculptor!MICHAEL ANGELO. Welcome, my Benvenuto.BENVENUTO.That is whatMy father said, the first time he beheldThis handsome face. But say farewell, not welcome.I come to take my leave. I start for FlorenceAs fast as horse can carry me. I longTo set once more upon its level flagsThese feet, made sore by your vile Roman pavements.Come with me; you are wanted there in Florence.The Sacristy is not finished.MICHAEL ANGELO.Speak not of it!How damp and cold it was! How my bones achedAnd my head reeled, when I was working there!I am too old. I will stay here in Rome,Where all is old and crumbling, like myself,To hopeless ruin. All roads lead to Rome.BENVENUTO. And all lead out of it.MICHAEL ANGELO.There is a charm,A certain something in the atmosphere,That all men feel, and no man can describe.BENVENUTO. Malaria?MICHAEL ANGELO.Yes, malaria of the mind,Out of this tomb of the majestic Past!The fever to accomplish some great workThat will not let us sleep. I must go onUntil I die.BENVENUTO. Do you ne'er think of Florence?MICHAEL ANGELO.Yes; wheneverI think of anything beside my work,I think of Florence. I remember, too,The bitter days I passed among the quarriesOf Seravezza and Pietrasanta;Road-building in the marshes; stupid people,And cold and rain incessant, and mad gustsOf mountain wind, like howling dervishes,That spun and whirled the eddying snow about themAs if it were a garment; aye, vexationsAnd troubles of all kinds, that ended onlyIn loss of time and money.BENVENUTO.True; Maestro,But that was not in Florence. You should leaveSuch work to others. Sweeter memoriesCluster about you, in the pleasant cityUpon the Arno.MICHAEL ANGELO.In my waking dreamsI see the marvellous dome of Brunelleschi,Ghiberti's gates of bronze, and Giotto's tower;And Ghirlandajo's lovely Benci glidesWith folded hands amid my troubled thoughts,A splendid vision! Time rides with the oldAt a great pace. As travellers on swift steedsSee the near landscape fly and flow behind them,While the remoter fields and dim horizonsGo with them, and seem wheeling round to meet them,So in old age things near us slip away,And distant things go with as. PleasantlyCome back to me the days when, as a youth,I walked with Ghirlandajo in the gardensOf Medici, and saw the antique statues,The forms august of gods and godlike men,And the great world of art revealed itselfTo my young eyes. Then all that man hath doneSeemed possible to me. Alas! how littleOf all I dreamed of has my hand achieved!BENVENUTO. Nay, let the Night and Morning, let Lorenzo And Julian in the Sacristy at Florence, Prophets and Sibyls in the Sistine Chapel, And the Last Judgment answer. Is it finished?MICHAEL ANGELO. The work is nearly done. But this Last Judgment Has been the cause of more vexation to me Than it will be of honor. Ser Biagio, Master of ceremonies at the Papal court, A man punctilious and over nice, Calls it improper; says that those nude forms, Showing their nakedness in such shameless fashion, Are better suited to a common bagnio, Or wayside wine-shop, than a Papal Chapel. To punish him I painted him as Minos And leave him there as master of ceremonies In the Infernal Regions. What would you Have done to such a man?BENVENUTO.I would have killed him.When any one insults me, if I canI kill him, kill him.MICHAEL ANGELO.Oh, you gentlemen,Who dress in silks and velvets, and wear swords,Are ready with your weapon; and have allA taste for homicide.BENVENUTO.I learned that lessonUnder Pope Clement at the siege of Rome,Some twenty years ago. As I was standingUpon the ramparts of the Campo SantoWith Alessandro Bene, I beheldA sea of fog, that covered all the plain,And hid from us the foe; when suddenly,A misty figure, like an apparition,Rose up above the fog, as if on horseback.At this I aimed my arquebus, and fired.The figure vanished; and there rose a cryOut of the darkness, long and fierce and loud,With imprecations in all languages.It was the Constable of France, the Bourbon,That I had slain.MICHAEL ANGELO.Rome should be grateful to you.BENVENUTO. But has not been; you shall hear presently. During the siege I served as bombardier, There in St. Angelo. His Holiness, One day, was walking with his Cardinals On the round bastion, while I stood above Among my falconets. All thought and feeling, All skill in art and all desire of fame, Were swallowed up in the delightful music Of that artillery. I saw far off, Within the enemy's trenches on the Prati, A Spanish cavalier in scarlet cloak; And firing at him with due aim and range, I cut the gay Hidalgo in two pieces. The eyes are dry that wept for him in Spain. His Holiness, delighted beyond measure With such display of gunnery, and amazed To see the man in scarlet cut in two, Gave me his benediction, and absolved me From all the homicides I had committed In service of the Apostolic Church, Or should commit thereafter. From that day I have not held in very high esteem The life of man.MICHAEL ANGELO.And who absolved Pope Clement?Now let us speak of Art.BENVENUTO.Of what you will.MICHAEL ANGELO. Say, have you seen our friend Fra Bastian lately, Since by a turn of fortune he became Friar of the Signet?BENVENUTO.Faith, a pretty artistTo pass his days in stamping leaden sealsOn Papal bulls!MICHAEL ANGELO. He has grown fat and lazy, As if the lead clung to him like a sinker. He paints no more, since he was sent to Fondi By Cardinal Ippolito to paint The fair Gonzaga. Ah, you should have seen him As I did, riding through the city gate, In his brown hood, attended by four horsemen, Completely armed, to frighten the banditti. I think he would have frightened them alone, For he was rounder than the O of Giotto.BENVENUTO. He must have looked more like a sack of meal Than a great painter.MICHAEL ANGELO.Well, he is not greatBut still I like him greatly. BenvenutoHave faith in nothing but in industry.Be at it late and early; persevere,And work right on through censure and applause,Or else abandon Art.BENVENUTO.No man works harderThen I do. I am not a moment idle.MICHAEL ANGELO. And what have you to show me?BENVENUTO.This gold ring,Made for his Holiness,—my latest work,And I am proud of it. A single diamondPresented by the Emperor to the Pope.Targhetta of Venice set and tinted it;I have reset it, and retinted itDivinely, as you see. The jewellersSay I've surpassed Targhetta.MICHAEL ANGELO.Let me see it.A pretty jewel.BENVENUTO.That is not the expression.Pretty is not a very pretty wordTo be applied to such a precious stone,Given by an Emperor to a Pope, and setBy Benvenuto!MICHAEL ANGELO.Messer Benvenuto,I lose all patience with you; for the giftsThat God hath given you are of such a kind,They should be put to far more noble usesThan setting diamonds for the Pope of Rome.You can do greater things.BENVENUTO.The God who made meKnows why he made me what I am,—a goldsmith,A mere artificer.MICHAEL ANGELO.Oh no; an artistRichly endowed by nature, but who wrapsHis talent in a napkin, and consumesHis life in vanities.BENVENUTO.Michael AngeloMay say what Benvenuto would not bearFrom any other man. He speaks the truth.I know my life is wasted and consumedIn vanities; but I have better hoursAnd higher aspirations than you think.Once, when a prisoner at St. Angelo,Fasting and praying in the midnight darkness,In a celestial vision I beheldA crucifix in the sun, of the same substanceAs is the sun itself. And since that hourThere is a splendor round about my head,That may be seen at sunrise and at sunsetAbove my shadow on the grass. And nowI know that I am in the grace of God,And none henceforth can harm me.MICHAEL ANGELO.None but one,—None but yourself, who are your greatest foe.He that respects himself is safe from others;He wears a coat of mail that none can pierce.BENVENUTO. I always wear one.MICHAEL ANGELO.O incorrigible!At least, forget not the celestial vision.Man must have something higher than himselfTo think of.BENVENUTO.That I know full well. Now listen.I have been sent for into France, where growThe Lilies that illumine heaven and earth,And carry in mine equipage the modelOf a most marvellous golden salt-cellarFor the king's table; and here in my brainA statue of Mars Armipotent for the fountainOf Fontainebleau, colossal, wonderful.I go a goldsmith, to return a sculptor.And so farewell, great Master. Think of meAs one who, in the midst of all his follies,Had also his ambition, and aspiredTo better things.MICHAEL ANGELO.Do not forget the vision.[Sitting down again to the Divina Commedia.Now in what circle of his poem sacred Would the great Florentine have placed this man? Whether in Phlegethon, the river of blood, Or in the fiery belt of Purgatory, I know not, but most surely not with those Who walk in leaden cloaks. Though he is one Whose passions, like a potent alkahest, Dissolve his better nature, he is not That despicable thing, a hypocrite; He doth not cloak his vices, nor deny them. Come back, my thoughts, from him to Paradise.IVFRA SEBASTIANO DEL PIOMBOMICHAEL ANGELO; FRA SEBASTIANO DEL PIOMBO.MICHAEL ANGELO, not turning round. Who is it?FRA SEBASTIANO.Wait, for I am out of breathIn climbing your steep stairs.MICHAEL ANGELO.Ah, my Bastiano,If you went up and down as many stairsAs I do still, and climbed as many ladders,It would be better for you. Pray sit down.Your idle and luxurious way of livingWill one day take your breath away entirely.And you will never find it.FRA SEBASTIANO.Well, what then?That would be better, in my apprehension,Than falling from a scaffold.MICHAEL ANGELO.That was nothingIt did not kill me; only lamed me slightly;I am quite well again.FRA SEBASTIANO.But why, dear Master,Why do you live so high up in your house,When you could live below and have a garden,As I do?MICHAEL ANGELO.From this window I can lookOn many gardens; o'er the city roofsSee the Campagna and the Alban hills;And all are mine.FRA SEBASTIANO.Can you sit down in them,On summer afternoons, and play the luteOr sing, or sleep the time away?MICHAEL ANGELO.I neverSleep in the day-time; scarcely sleep at night.I have not time. Did you meet BenvenutoAs you came up the stair?FRA SEBASTIANO.He ran against meOn the first landing, going at full speed;Dressed like the Spanish captain in a play,With his long rapier and his short red cloak.Why hurry through the world at such a pace?Life will not be too long.MICHAEL ANGELO.It is his nature,—A restless spirit, that consumes itselfWith useless agitations. He o'erleapsThe goal he aims at. Patience is a plantThat grows not in all gardens. You are madeOf quite another clay.FRA SEBASTIANO.And thank God for it.And now, being somewhat rested, I will tell youWhy I have climbed these formidable stairs.I have a friend, Francesco Berni, here,A very charming poet and companion,Who greatly honors you and all your doings,And you must sup with us.MICHAEL ANGELO.Not I, indeed.I know too well what artists' suppers are.You must excuse me.FRA SEBASTIANO.I will not excuse you.You need repose from your incessant work;Some recreation, some bright hours of pleasure.MICHAEL ANGELO. To me, what you and other men call pleasure Is only pain. Work is my recreation, The play of faculty; a delight like that Which a bird feels in flying, or a fish In darting through the water,—nothing more. I cannot go. The Sibylline leaves of life Grow precious now, when only few remain. I cannot go.FRA SEBASTIANO.Berni, perhaps, will readA canto of the Orlando Inamorato.MICHAEL ANGELO. That is another reason for not going. If aught is tedious and intolerable, It is a poet reading his own verses,FRA SEBASTIANO. Berni thinks somewhat better of your verses Than you of his. He says that you speak things, And other poets words. So, pray you, come.MICHAEL ANGELO. If it were now the Improvisatore, Luigia Pulci, whom I used to hear With Benvenuto, in the streets of Florence, I might be tempted. I was younger then And singing in the open air was pleasant.FRA SEBASTIANO. There is a Frenchman here, named Rabelais, Once a Franciscan friar, and now a doctor, And secretary to the embassy: A learned man, who speaks all languages, And wittiest of men; who wrote a book Of the Adventures of Gargantua, So full of strange conceits one roars with laughter At every page; a jovial boon-companion And lover of much wine. He too is coming.MICHAEL ANGELO. Then you will not want me, who am not witty, And have no sense of mirth, and love not wine. I should be like a dead man at your banquet. Why should I seek this Frenchman, Rabelais? And wherefore go to hear Francesco Berni, When I have Dante Alighieri here. The greatest of all poets?
JULIA.Teach me, then,To harmonize the discord of my life,And stop the painful jangle of these wires.
VALDESSO. That is a task impossible, until You tune your heart-strings to a higher key Than earthly melodies.
JULIA.How shall I do it?Point out to me the way of this perfection,And I will follow you; for you have madeMy soul enamored with it, and I cannotRest satisfied until I find it out.But lead me privately, so that the worldHear not my steps; I would not give occasionFor talk among the people.
VALDESSO.Now at lastI understand you fully. Then, what needIs there for us to beat about the bush?I know what you desire of me.
JULIA.What rudeness!If you already know it, why not tell me?
VALDESSO. Because I rather wait for you to ask it With your own lips.
JULIA.Do me the kindness, then,To speak without reserve; and with all frankness,If you divine the truth, will I confess it.
VALDESSO. I am content.
JULIA.Then speak.
VALDESSO.You would be freeFrom the vexatious thoughts that come and goThrough your imagination, and would have mePoint out some royal road and lady-likeWhich you may walk in, and not wound your feet;You would attain to the divine perfection,And yet not turn your back upon the world;You would possess humility within,But not reveal it in your outward actions;You would have patience, but without the rudeOccasions that require its exercise;You would despise the world, but in such fashionThe world should not despise you in return;Would clothe the soul with all the Christian graces,Yet not despoil the body of its gauds;Would feed the soul with spiritual food,Yet not deprive the body of its feasts;Would seem angelic in the sight of God,Yet not too saint-like in the eyes of men;In short, would lead a holy Christian lifeIn such a way that even your nearest friendWould not detect therein one circumstanceTo show a change from what it was before.Have I divined your secret?
JULIA.You have drawnThe portrait of my inner self as trulyAs the most skilful painter ever paintedA human face.
VALDESSO.This warrants me in sayingYou think you can win heaven by compromise,And not by verdict.
JULIAYou have often told meThat a bad compromise was better evenThan a good verdict.
VALDESSO.Yes, in suits at law;Not in religion. With the human soulThere is no compromise. By faith aloneCan man be justified.
JULIA.Hush, dear Valdesso;That is a heresy. Do not, I pray you,Proclaim it from the house-top, but preserve itAs something precious, hidden in your heart,As I, who half believe and tremble at it.
VALDESSO. I must proclaim the truth.
JULIA.Enthusiast!Why must you? You imperil both yourselfAnd friends by your imprudence. Pray, be patient.You have occasion now to show that virtueWhich you lay stress upon. Let us returnTo our lost pathway. Show me by what stepsI shall walk in it.[Convent bells are heard.
VALDESSO.Hark! the convent bellsAre ringing; it is midnight; I must leave you.And yet I linger. Pardon me, dear Countess,Since you to-night have made me your confessor,If I so far may venture, I will warn youUpon one point.
JULIA.What is it? Speak, I pray you,For I have no concealments in my conduct;All is as open as the light of day.What is it you would warn me of?
VALDESSO.Your friendshipWith Cardinal Ippolito.
JULIA.What is thereTo cause suspicion or alarm in that,More than in friendships that I entertainWith you and others? I ne'er sat with himAlone at night, as I am sitting nowWith you, Valdesso.
VALDESSO.Pardon me; the portraitThat Fra Bastiano painted was for him.Is that quite prudent?
JULIA.That is the same questionVittoria put to me, when I last saw her.I make you the same answer. That was notA pledge of love, but of pure gratitude.Recall the adventure of that dreadful nightWhen Barbarossa with two thousand MoorsLanded upon the coast, and in the darknessAttacked my castle. Then, without delay,The Cardinal came hurrying down from RomeTo rescue and protect me. Was it wrongThat in an hour like that I did not weighToo nicely this or that, but granted himA boon that pleased him, and that flattered me?
VALDESSO. Only beware lest, in disguise of friendship Another corsair, worse than Barbarossa, Steal in and seize the castle, not by storm But strategy. And now I take my leave.
JULIA.Farewell; but ere you go look forth and seeHow night hath hushed the clamor and the stirOf the tumultuous streets. The cloudless moonRoofs the whole city as with tiles of silver;The dim, mysterious sea in silence sleeps;And straight into the air Vesuvius liftsHis plume of smoke. How beautiful it is![Voices in the street.
GIOVAN ANDREA. Poisoned at Itri.
ANOTHER VOICE.Poisoned? Who is poisoned?
GIOVAN ANDREA.The Cardinal Ippolito, my master.Call it malaria. It was sudden.[Julia swoons.
A room in the Torre Argentina.
VITTORIA COLONNA and JULIA GONZAGA.
VITTORIA. Come to my arms and to my heart once more; My soul goes out to meet you and embrace you, For we are of the sisterhood of sorrow. I know what you have suffered.
JULIA.Name it not.Let me forget it.
VITTORIA.I will say no more.Let me look at you. What a joy it isTo see your face, to hear your voice again!You bring with you a breath as of the morn,A memory of the far-off happy daysWhen we were young. When did you come from Fondi?
JULIA. I have not been at Fondi since—
VITTORIA.Ah me!You need not speak the word; I understand you.
JULIA. I came from Naples by the lovely valley The Terra di Lavoro.
VITTORIA.And you find meBut just returned from a long journey northward.I have been staying with that noble womanRenee of France, the Duchess of Ferrara.
JULIA. Oh, tell me of the Duchess. I have heard Flaminio speak her praises with such warmth That I am eager to hear more of her And of her brilliant court.
VITTORIA.You shall hear allBut first sit down and listen patientlyWhile I confess myself.
JULIA.What deadly sinHave you committed?
VITTORIA.Not a sin; a follyI chid you once at Ischia, when you told meThat brave Fra Bastian was to paint your portrait.
JULIA Well I remember it.
VITTORIA.Then chide me now,For I confess to something still more strange.Old as I am, I have at last consentedTo the entreaties and the supplicationsOf Michael Angelo—
JULIATo marry him?
VITTORIA. I pray you, do not jest with me! You now, Or you should know, that never such a thought Entered my breast. I am already married. The Marquis of Pescara is my husband, And death has not divorced us.
JULIA.Pardon me.Have I offended you?
VITTORIA.No, but have hurt me.Unto my buried lord I give myself,Unto my friend the shadow of myself,My portrait. It is not from vanity,But for the love I bear him.
JULIA.I rejoiceTo hear these words. Oh, this will be a portraitWorthy of both of you! [A knock.
VITTORIA.Hark! He is coming.
JULIA. And shall I go or stay?
VITTORIA.By all means, stay.The drawing will be better for your presence;You will enliven me.
JULIA.I shall not speak;The presence of great men doth take from meAll power of speech. I only gaze at themIn silent wonder, as if they were gods,Or the inhabitants of some other planet.
Enter MICHAEL ANGELO.
VITTORIA. Come in.
MICHAEL ANGELO.I fear my visit is ill-timed;I interrupt you.
VITTORIA.No; this is a friendOf yours as well as mine,—the Lady Julia,The Duchess of Trajetto.
MICHAEL ANGELO to JULIA.I salute you.'T is long since I have seen your face, my lady;Pardon me if I say that having seen it,One never can forget it.
JULIA.You are kindTo keep me in your memory.
MICHAEL ANGELO.It isThe privilege of age to speak with frankness.You will not be offended when I sayThat never was your beauty more divine.
JULIA. When Michael Angelo condescends to flatter Or praise me, I am proud, and not offended.
VITTORIA. Now this is gallantry enough for one; Show me a little.
MICHAEL ANGELO.Ah, my gracious lady,You know I have not words to speak your praise.I think of you in silence. You concealYour manifold perfections from all eyes,And make yourself more saint-like day by day.And day by day men worship you the wore.But now your hour of martyrdom has come.You know why I am here.
VITTORIA.Ah yes, I know it,And meet my fate with fortitude. You find meSurrounded by the labors of your hands:The Woman of Samaria at the Well,The Mater Dolorosa, and the ChristUpon the Cross, beneath which you have writtenThose memorable words of Alighieri,"Men have forgotten how much blood it costs."
MICHAEL ANGELO. And now I come to add one labor more, If you will call that labor which is pleasure, And only pleasure.
VITTORIA.How shall I be seated?
MICHAEL ANGELO, opening his portfolio.
Just as you are. The light falls well upon you.
VITTORIA. I am ashamed to steal the time from you That should be given to the Sistine Chapel. How does that work go on?
MICHAEL ANGELO, drawing.But tardily.Old men work slowly. Brain and hand alikeAre dull and torpid. To die young is best,And not to be remembered as old menTottering about in their decrepitude.
VITTORIA. My dear Maestro! have you, then, forgotten The story of Sophocles in his old age?
MICHAEL ANGELO. What story is it?
VITTORIA.When his sons accused him,Before the Areopagus, of dotage,For all defence, he read there to his JudgesThe Tragedy of Oedipus Coloneus,—The work of his old age.
MICHAEL ANGELO.'T is an illusionA fabulous story, that will lead old menInto a thousand follies and conceits.
VITTORIA. So you may show to cavilers your painting Of the Last Judgment in the Sistine Chapel.
MICHAEL ANGELO. Now you and Lady Julia shall resume The conversation that I interrupted.
VITTORIA. It was of no great import; nothing more Nor less than my late visit to Ferrara, And what I saw there in the ducal palace. Will it not interrupt you?
MICHAEL ANGELO.Not the least.
VITTORIA. Well, first, then, of Duke Ercole: a man Cold in his manners, and reserved and silent, And yet magnificent in all his ways; Not hospitable unto new ideas, But from state policy, and certain reasons Concerning the investiture of the duchy, A partisan of Rome, and consequently Intolerant of all the new opinions.
JULIA. I should not like the Duke. These silent men, Who only look and listen, are like wells That have no water in them, deep and empty. How could the daughter of a king of France Wed such a duke?
MICHAEL ANGELO.The men that women marryAnd why they marry them, will always beA marvel and a mystery to the world.
VITTORIA. And then the Duchess,—how shall I describe her, Or tell the merits of that happy nature, Which pleases most when least it thinks of pleasing? Not beautiful, perhaps, in form and feature, Yet with an inward beauty, that shines through Each look and attitude and word and gesture; A kindly grace of manner and behavior, A something in her presence and her ways That makes her beautiful beyond the reach Of mere external beauty; and in heart So noble and devoted to the truth, And so in sympathy with all who strive After the higher life.
JULIA. She draws me to her As much as her Duke Ercole repels me.
VITTORIA. Then the devout and honorable women That grace her court, and make it good to be there; Francesca Bucyronia, the true-hearted, Lavinia della Rovere and the Orsini, The Magdalena and the Cherubina, And Anne de Parthenai, who sings so sweetly; All lovely women, full of noble thoughts And aspirations after noble things.
JULIA. Boccaccio would have envied you such dames.
VITTORIA. No; his Fiammettas and his Philomenas Are fitter company for Ser Giovanni; I fear he hardly would have comprehended The women that I speak of.
MICHAEL ANGELO.Yet he wroteThe story of Griselda. That is somethingTo set down in his favor.
VITTORIA.With these ladiesWas a young girl, Olympia Morate,Daughter of Fulvio, the learned scholar,Famous in all the universities.A marvellous child, who at the spinning wheel,And in the daily round of household cares,Hath learned both Greek and Latin; and is nowA favorite of the Duchess and companionOf Princess Anne. This beautiful young SapphoSometimes recited to us Grecian odesThat she had written, with a voice whose sadnessThrilled and o'ermastered me, and made me lookInto the future time, and ask myselfWhat destiny will be hers.
JULIA.A sad one, surely.Frost kills the flowers that blossom out of season;And these precocious intellects portendA life of sorrow or an early death.
VITTORIA. About the court were many learned men; Chilian Sinapius from beyond the Alps, And Celio Curione, and Manzolli, The Duke's physician; and a pale young man, Charles d'Espeville of Geneva, whom the Duchess Doth much delight to talk with and to read, For he hath written a book of Institutes The Duchess greatly praises, though some call it The Koran of the heretics.
JULIA.And what poetsWere there to sing you madrigals, and praiseOlympia's eyes and Cherubina's tresses?
VITTORIA. No; for great Ariosto is no more. The voice that filled those halls with melody Has long been hushed in death.
JULIA.You should have madeA pilgrimage unto the poet's tomb,And laid a wreath upon it, for the wordsHe spake of you.
VITTORIA.And of yourself no less,And of our master, Michael Angelo.
MICHAEL ANGELO. Of me?
VITTORIA.Have you forgotten that he calls youMichael, less man than angel, and divine?You are ungrateful.
MICHAEL ANGELO.A mere play on words.That adjective he wanted for a rhyme,To match with Gian Bellino and Urbino.
VITTORIA. Bernardo Tasso is no longer there, Nor the gay troubadour of Gascony, Clement Marot, surnamed by flatterers The Prince of Poets and the Poet of Princes, Who, being looked upon with much disfavor By the Duke Ercole, has fled to Venice.
MICHAEL ANGELO. There let him stay with Pietro Aretino, The Scourge of Princes, also called Divine. The title is so common in our mouths, That even the Pifferari of Abruzzi, Who play their bag-pipes in the streets of Rome At the Epiphany, will bear it soon, And will deserve it better than some poets.
VITTORIA. What bee hath stung you?
MICHAEL ANGELO.One that makes no honey;One that comes buzzing in through every window,And stabs men with his sting. A bitter thoughtPassed through my mind, but it is gone again;I spake too hastily.
JULIA.I pray you, show meWhat you have done.
MICHAEL ANGELO.Not yet; it is not finished.
A room in MICHAEL ANGELO'S house.
MICHAEL ANGELO. Fled to Viterbo, the old Papal city Where once an Emperor, humbled in his pride, Held the Pope's stirrup, as his Holiness Alighted from his mule! A fugitive From Cardinal Caraffa's hate, who hurls His thunders at the house of the Colonna, With endless bitterness!—Among the nuns In Santa Catarina's convent hidden, Herself in soul a nun! And now she chides me For my too frequent letters, that disturb Her meditations, and that hinder me And keep me from my work; now graciously She thanks me for the crucifix I sent her, And says that she will keep it: with one hand Inflicts a wound, and with the other heals it. [Reading.
"Profoundly I believed that God would grant you A supernatural faith to paint this Christ; I wished for that which I now see fulfilled So marvellously, exceeding all my wishes. Nor more could be desired, or even so much. And greatly I rejoice that you have made The angel on the right so beautiful; For the Archangel Michael will place you, You, Michael Angelo, on that new day Upon the Lord's right hand! And waiting that, How can I better serve you than to pray To this sweet Christ for you, and to beseech you To hold me altogether yours in all things."
Well, I will write less often, or no more,But wait her coming. No one born in RomeCan live elsewhere; but he must pine for Rome,And must return to it. I, who am bornAnd bred a Tuscan and a Florentine,Feel the attraction, and I linger hereAs if I were a pebble in the pavementTrodden by priestly feet. This I endure,Because I breathe in Rome an atmosphereHeavy with odors of the laurel leavesThat crowned great heroes of the sword and pen,In ages past. I feel myself exaltedTo walk the streets in which a Virgil walked,Or Trajan rode in triumph; but far more,And most of all, because the great ColonnaBreathes the same air I breathe, and is to meAn inspiration. Now that she is gone,Rome is no longer Rome till she return.This feeling overmasters me. I know notIf it be love, this strong desire to beForever in her presence; but I knowThat I, who was the friend of solitude,And ever was best pleased when most alone,Now weary grow of my own company.For the first time old age seems lonely to me.[Opening the Divina Commedia.I turn for consolation to the leavesOf the great master of our Tuscan tongue,Whose words, like colored garnet-shirls in lava,Betray the heat in which they were engendered.A mendicant, he ate the bitter breadOf others, but repaid their meagre giftsWith immortality. In courts of princesHe was a by-word, and in streets of townsWas mocked by children, like the Hebrew prophet,Himself a prophet. I too know the cry,Go up, thou bald head! from a generationThat, wanting reverence, wanteth the best foodThe soul can feed on. There's not room enoughFor age and youth upon this little planet.Age must give way. There was not room enoughEven for this great poet. In his songI hear reverberate the gates of Florence,Closing upon him, never more to open;But mingled with the sound are melodiesCelestial from the gates of paradise.He came, and he is gone. The people knew notWhat manner of man was passing by their doors,Until he passed no more; but in his visionHe saw the torments and beatitudesOf souls condemned or pardoned, and hath leftBehind him this sublime Apocalypse.
I strive in vain to draw here on the margin The face of Beatrice. It is not hers, But the Colonna's. Each hath his ideal, The image of some woman excellent, That is his guide. No Grecian art, nor Roman, Hath yet revealed such loveliness as hers.
VITTORIA COLONNA at the convent window.
VITTORIA.Parting with friends is temporary death,As all death is. We see no more their faces,Nor hear their voices, save in memory;But messages of love give us assuranceThat we are not forgotten. Who shall sayThat from the world of spirits comes no greeting,No message of remembrance? It may beThe thoughts that visit us, we know not whence,Sudden as inspiration, are the whispersOf disembodied spirits, speaking to usAs friends, who wait outside a prison wall,Through the barred windows speak to those within.[A pause.
As quiet as the lake that lies beneath me, As quiet as the tranquil sky above me, As quiet as a heart that beats no more, This convent seems. Above, below, all peace! Silence and solitude, the soul's best friends, Are with me here, and the tumultuous world Makes no more noise than the remotest planet. O gentle spirit, unto the third circle Of heaven among the blessed souls ascended, Who, living in the faith and dying for it, Have gone to their reward, I do not sigh For thee as being dead, but for myself That I am still alive. Turn those dear eyes, Once so benignant to me, upon mine, That open to their tears such uncontrolled And such continual issue. Still awhile Have patience; I will come to thee at last. A few more goings in and out these doors, A few more chimings of these convent bells, A few more prayers, a few more sighs and tears, And the long agony of this life will end, And I shall be with thee. If I am wanting To thy well-being, as thou art to mine, Have patience; I will come to thee at last. Ye minds that loiter in these cloister gardens, Or wander far above the city walls, Bear unto him this message, that I ever Or speak or think of him, or weep for him.
By unseen hands uplifted in the light Of sunset, yonder solitary cloud Floats, with its white apparel blown abroad, And wafted up to heaven. It fades away, And melts into the air. Ah, would that I Could thus be wafted unto thee, Francesco, A cloud of white, an incorporeal spirit!
MICHAEL ANGELO, BENVENUTO CELLINI in gay attire.
BENVENUTO. A good day and good year to the divine Maestro Michael Angelo, the sculptor!
MICHAEL ANGELO. Welcome, my Benvenuto.
BENVENUTO.That is whatMy father said, the first time he beheldThis handsome face. But say farewell, not welcome.I come to take my leave. I start for FlorenceAs fast as horse can carry me. I longTo set once more upon its level flagsThese feet, made sore by your vile Roman pavements.Come with me; you are wanted there in Florence.The Sacristy is not finished.
MICHAEL ANGELO.Speak not of it!How damp and cold it was! How my bones achedAnd my head reeled, when I was working there!I am too old. I will stay here in Rome,Where all is old and crumbling, like myself,To hopeless ruin. All roads lead to Rome.
BENVENUTO. And all lead out of it.
MICHAEL ANGELO.There is a charm,A certain something in the atmosphere,That all men feel, and no man can describe.
BENVENUTO. Malaria?
MICHAEL ANGELO.Yes, malaria of the mind,Out of this tomb of the majestic Past!The fever to accomplish some great workThat will not let us sleep. I must go onUntil I die.
BENVENUTO. Do you ne'er think of Florence?
MICHAEL ANGELO.Yes; wheneverI think of anything beside my work,I think of Florence. I remember, too,The bitter days I passed among the quarriesOf Seravezza and Pietrasanta;Road-building in the marshes; stupid people,And cold and rain incessant, and mad gustsOf mountain wind, like howling dervishes,That spun and whirled the eddying snow about themAs if it were a garment; aye, vexationsAnd troubles of all kinds, that ended onlyIn loss of time and money.
BENVENUTO.True; Maestro,But that was not in Florence. You should leaveSuch work to others. Sweeter memoriesCluster about you, in the pleasant cityUpon the Arno.
MICHAEL ANGELO.In my waking dreamsI see the marvellous dome of Brunelleschi,Ghiberti's gates of bronze, and Giotto's tower;And Ghirlandajo's lovely Benci glidesWith folded hands amid my troubled thoughts,A splendid vision! Time rides with the oldAt a great pace. As travellers on swift steedsSee the near landscape fly and flow behind them,While the remoter fields and dim horizonsGo with them, and seem wheeling round to meet them,So in old age things near us slip away,And distant things go with as. PleasantlyCome back to me the days when, as a youth,I walked with Ghirlandajo in the gardensOf Medici, and saw the antique statues,The forms august of gods and godlike men,And the great world of art revealed itselfTo my young eyes. Then all that man hath doneSeemed possible to me. Alas! how littleOf all I dreamed of has my hand achieved!
BENVENUTO. Nay, let the Night and Morning, let Lorenzo And Julian in the Sacristy at Florence, Prophets and Sibyls in the Sistine Chapel, And the Last Judgment answer. Is it finished?
MICHAEL ANGELO. The work is nearly done. But this Last Judgment Has been the cause of more vexation to me Than it will be of honor. Ser Biagio, Master of ceremonies at the Papal court, A man punctilious and over nice, Calls it improper; says that those nude forms, Showing their nakedness in such shameless fashion, Are better suited to a common bagnio, Or wayside wine-shop, than a Papal Chapel. To punish him I painted him as Minos And leave him there as master of ceremonies In the Infernal Regions. What would you Have done to such a man?
BENVENUTO.I would have killed him.When any one insults me, if I canI kill him, kill him.
MICHAEL ANGELO.Oh, you gentlemen,Who dress in silks and velvets, and wear swords,Are ready with your weapon; and have allA taste for homicide.
BENVENUTO.I learned that lessonUnder Pope Clement at the siege of Rome,Some twenty years ago. As I was standingUpon the ramparts of the Campo SantoWith Alessandro Bene, I beheldA sea of fog, that covered all the plain,And hid from us the foe; when suddenly,A misty figure, like an apparition,Rose up above the fog, as if on horseback.At this I aimed my arquebus, and fired.The figure vanished; and there rose a cryOut of the darkness, long and fierce and loud,With imprecations in all languages.It was the Constable of France, the Bourbon,That I had slain.
MICHAEL ANGELO.Rome should be grateful to you.
BENVENUTO. But has not been; you shall hear presently. During the siege I served as bombardier, There in St. Angelo. His Holiness, One day, was walking with his Cardinals On the round bastion, while I stood above Among my falconets. All thought and feeling, All skill in art and all desire of fame, Were swallowed up in the delightful music Of that artillery. I saw far off, Within the enemy's trenches on the Prati, A Spanish cavalier in scarlet cloak; And firing at him with due aim and range, I cut the gay Hidalgo in two pieces. The eyes are dry that wept for him in Spain. His Holiness, delighted beyond measure With such display of gunnery, and amazed To see the man in scarlet cut in two, Gave me his benediction, and absolved me From all the homicides I had committed In service of the Apostolic Church, Or should commit thereafter. From that day I have not held in very high esteem The life of man.
MICHAEL ANGELO.And who absolved Pope Clement?Now let us speak of Art.
BENVENUTO.Of what you will.
MICHAEL ANGELO. Say, have you seen our friend Fra Bastian lately, Since by a turn of fortune he became Friar of the Signet?
BENVENUTO.Faith, a pretty artistTo pass his days in stamping leaden sealsOn Papal bulls!
MICHAEL ANGELO. He has grown fat and lazy, As if the lead clung to him like a sinker. He paints no more, since he was sent to Fondi By Cardinal Ippolito to paint The fair Gonzaga. Ah, you should have seen him As I did, riding through the city gate, In his brown hood, attended by four horsemen, Completely armed, to frighten the banditti. I think he would have frightened them alone, For he was rounder than the O of Giotto.
BENVENUTO. He must have looked more like a sack of meal Than a great painter.
MICHAEL ANGELO.Well, he is not greatBut still I like him greatly. BenvenutoHave faith in nothing but in industry.Be at it late and early; persevere,And work right on through censure and applause,Or else abandon Art.
BENVENUTO.No man works harderThen I do. I am not a moment idle.
MICHAEL ANGELO. And what have you to show me?
BENVENUTO.This gold ring,Made for his Holiness,—my latest work,And I am proud of it. A single diamondPresented by the Emperor to the Pope.Targhetta of Venice set and tinted it;I have reset it, and retinted itDivinely, as you see. The jewellersSay I've surpassed Targhetta.
MICHAEL ANGELO.Let me see it.A pretty jewel.
BENVENUTO.That is not the expression.Pretty is not a very pretty wordTo be applied to such a precious stone,Given by an Emperor to a Pope, and setBy Benvenuto!
MICHAEL ANGELO.Messer Benvenuto,I lose all patience with you; for the giftsThat God hath given you are of such a kind,They should be put to far more noble usesThan setting diamonds for the Pope of Rome.You can do greater things.
BENVENUTO.The God who made meKnows why he made me what I am,—a goldsmith,A mere artificer.
MICHAEL ANGELO.Oh no; an artistRichly endowed by nature, but who wrapsHis talent in a napkin, and consumesHis life in vanities.
BENVENUTO.Michael AngeloMay say what Benvenuto would not bearFrom any other man. He speaks the truth.I know my life is wasted and consumedIn vanities; but I have better hoursAnd higher aspirations than you think.Once, when a prisoner at St. Angelo,Fasting and praying in the midnight darkness,In a celestial vision I beheldA crucifix in the sun, of the same substanceAs is the sun itself. And since that hourThere is a splendor round about my head,That may be seen at sunrise and at sunsetAbove my shadow on the grass. And nowI know that I am in the grace of God,And none henceforth can harm me.
MICHAEL ANGELO.None but one,—None but yourself, who are your greatest foe.He that respects himself is safe from others;He wears a coat of mail that none can pierce.
BENVENUTO. I always wear one.
MICHAEL ANGELO.O incorrigible!At least, forget not the celestial vision.Man must have something higher than himselfTo think of.
BENVENUTO.That I know full well. Now listen.I have been sent for into France, where growThe Lilies that illumine heaven and earth,And carry in mine equipage the modelOf a most marvellous golden salt-cellarFor the king's table; and here in my brainA statue of Mars Armipotent for the fountainOf Fontainebleau, colossal, wonderful.I go a goldsmith, to return a sculptor.And so farewell, great Master. Think of meAs one who, in the midst of all his follies,Had also his ambition, and aspiredTo better things.
MICHAEL ANGELO.Do not forget the vision.
[Sitting down again to the Divina Commedia.
Now in what circle of his poem sacred Would the great Florentine have placed this man? Whether in Phlegethon, the river of blood, Or in the fiery belt of Purgatory, I know not, but most surely not with those Who walk in leaden cloaks. Though he is one Whose passions, like a potent alkahest, Dissolve his better nature, he is not That despicable thing, a hypocrite; He doth not cloak his vices, nor deny them. Come back, my thoughts, from him to Paradise.
MICHAEL ANGELO; FRA SEBASTIANO DEL PIOMBO.
MICHAEL ANGELO, not turning round. Who is it?
FRA SEBASTIANO.Wait, for I am out of breathIn climbing your steep stairs.
MICHAEL ANGELO.Ah, my Bastiano,If you went up and down as many stairsAs I do still, and climbed as many ladders,It would be better for you. Pray sit down.Your idle and luxurious way of livingWill one day take your breath away entirely.And you will never find it.
FRA SEBASTIANO.Well, what then?That would be better, in my apprehension,Than falling from a scaffold.
MICHAEL ANGELO.That was nothingIt did not kill me; only lamed me slightly;I am quite well again.
FRA SEBASTIANO.But why, dear Master,Why do you live so high up in your house,When you could live below and have a garden,As I do?
MICHAEL ANGELO.From this window I can lookOn many gardens; o'er the city roofsSee the Campagna and the Alban hills;And all are mine.
FRA SEBASTIANO.Can you sit down in them,On summer afternoons, and play the luteOr sing, or sleep the time away?
MICHAEL ANGELO.I neverSleep in the day-time; scarcely sleep at night.I have not time. Did you meet BenvenutoAs you came up the stair?
FRA SEBASTIANO.He ran against meOn the first landing, going at full speed;Dressed like the Spanish captain in a play,With his long rapier and his short red cloak.Why hurry through the world at such a pace?Life will not be too long.
MICHAEL ANGELO.It is his nature,—A restless spirit, that consumes itselfWith useless agitations. He o'erleapsThe goal he aims at. Patience is a plantThat grows not in all gardens. You are madeOf quite another clay.
FRA SEBASTIANO.And thank God for it.And now, being somewhat rested, I will tell youWhy I have climbed these formidable stairs.I have a friend, Francesco Berni, here,A very charming poet and companion,Who greatly honors you and all your doings,And you must sup with us.
MICHAEL ANGELO.Not I, indeed.I know too well what artists' suppers are.You must excuse me.
FRA SEBASTIANO.I will not excuse you.You need repose from your incessant work;Some recreation, some bright hours of pleasure.
MICHAEL ANGELO. To me, what you and other men call pleasure Is only pain. Work is my recreation, The play of faculty; a delight like that Which a bird feels in flying, or a fish In darting through the water,—nothing more. I cannot go. The Sibylline leaves of life Grow precious now, when only few remain. I cannot go.
FRA SEBASTIANO.Berni, perhaps, will readA canto of the Orlando Inamorato.
MICHAEL ANGELO. That is another reason for not going. If aught is tedious and intolerable, It is a poet reading his own verses,
FRA SEBASTIANO. Berni thinks somewhat better of your verses Than you of his. He says that you speak things, And other poets words. So, pray you, come.
MICHAEL ANGELO. If it were now the Improvisatore, Luigia Pulci, whom I used to hear With Benvenuto, in the streets of Florence, I might be tempted. I was younger then And singing in the open air was pleasant.
FRA SEBASTIANO. There is a Frenchman here, named Rabelais, Once a Franciscan friar, and now a doctor, And secretary to the embassy: A learned man, who speaks all languages, And wittiest of men; who wrote a book Of the Adventures of Gargantua, So full of strange conceits one roars with laughter At every page; a jovial boon-companion And lover of much wine. He too is coming.
MICHAEL ANGELO. Then you will not want me, who am not witty, And have no sense of mirth, and love not wine. I should be like a dead man at your banquet. Why should I seek this Frenchman, Rabelais? And wherefore go to hear Francesco Berni, When I have Dante Alighieri here. The greatest of all poets?