FRA SEBASTIANO.And the dullest;And only to be read in episodes.His day is past. Petrarca is our poet.MICHAEL ANGELO. Petrarca is for women and for lovers And for those soft Abati, who delight To wander down long garden walks in summer, Tinkling their little sonnets all day long, As lap dogs do their bells.FRA SEBASTIANO.I love Petrarca.How sweetly of his absent love he singsWhen journeying in the forest of Ardennes!"I seem to hear her, hearing the boughs and breezesAnd leaves and birds lamenting, and the watersMurmuring flee along the verdant herbage."MICHAEL ANGELO. Enough. It is all seeming, and no being. If you would know how a man speaks in earnest, Read here this passage, where St. Peter thunders In Paradise against degenerate Popes And the corruptions of the church, till all The heaven about him blushes like a sunset. I beg you to take note of what he says About the Papal seals, for that concerns Your office and yourself.FRA SEBASTIANO, reading.Is this the passage?"Nor I be made the figure of a sealTo privileges venal and mendacious,Whereat I often redden and flash with fire!"—That is not poetry.MICHAEL ANGELO.What is it, then?FRA SEBASTIANO. Vituperation; gall that might have spirited From Aretino's pen.MICHAEL ANGELO.Name not that man!A profligate, whom your Francesco BerniDescribes as having one foot in the brothelAnd the other in the hospital; who livesBy flattering or maligning, as best servesHis purpose at the time. He writes to meWith easy arrogance of my Last Judgment,In such familiar tone that one would sayThe great event already had occurred,And he was present, and from observationInformed me how the picture should be painted.FRA SEBASTIANO. What unassuming, unobtrusive men These critics are! Now, to have Aretino Aiming his shafts at you brings back to mind The Gascon archers in the square of Milan, Shooting their arrows at Duke Sforza's statue, By Leonardo, and the foolish rabble Of envious Florentines, that at your David Threw stones at night. But Aretino praised you.MICHAEL ANGELO. His praises were ironical. He knows How to use words as weapons, and to wound While seeming to defend. But look, Bastiano, See how the setting sun lights up that picture!FRA SEBASTIANO. My portrait of Vittoria Colonna.MICHAEL ANGELO. It makes her look as she will look hereafter, When she becomes a saint!FRA SEBASTIANO.A noble woman!MICHAEL ANGELO. Ah, these old hands can fashion fairer shapes In marble, and can paint diviner pictures, Since I have known her.FRA SEBASTIANO.And you like this picture.And yet it is in oil; which you detest.MICHAEL ANGELO. When that barbarian Jan Van Eyck discovered The use of oil in painting, he degraded His art into a handicraft, and made it Sign-painting, merely, for a country inn Or wayside wine-shop. 'T is an art for women, Or for such leisurely and idle people As you, Fra Bastiano. Nature paints not In oils, but frescoes the great dome of heaven With sunset; and the lovely forms of clouds And flying vapors.FRA SEBASTIANO.And how soon they fade!Behold yon line of roofs and belfries paintedUpon the golden background of the sky,Like a Byzantine picture, or a portraitOf Cimabue. See how hard the outline,Sharp-cut and clear, not rounded into shadow.Yet that is nature.MICHAEL ANGELO.She is always right.The picture that approaches sculpture nearestIs the best picture.FRA SEBASTIANO.Leonardo thinksThe open air too bright. We ought to paintAs if the sun were shining through a mist.'T is easier done in oil than in distemper.MICHAEL ANGELO. Do not revive again the old dispute; I have an excellent memory for forgetting, But I still feel the hurt. Wounds are not healed By the unbending of the bow that made them.FRA SEBASTIANO. So say Petrarca and the ancient proverb.MICHAEL ANGELO. But that is past. Now I am angry with you, Not that you paint in oils, but that grown fat And indolent, you do not paint at all.FRA SEBASTIANO. Why should I paint? Why should I toil and sweat, Who now am rich enough to live at ease, And take my pleasure?MICHAEL ANGELO.When Pope Leo died,He who had been so lavish of the wealthHis predecessors left him, who receivedA basket of gold-pieces every morning,Which every night was empty, left behindHardly enough to pay his funeral.FRA SEBASTIANO. I care for banquets, not for funerals, As did his Holiness. I have forbidden All tapers at my burial, and procession Of priests and friars and monks; and have provided The cost thereof be given to the poor!MICHAEL ANGELO. You have done wisely, but of that I speak not. Ghiberti left behind him wealth and children; But who to-day would know that he had lived, If he had never made those gates of bronze In the old Baptistery,—those gates of bronze, Worthy to be the gates of Paradise. His wealth is scattered to the winds; his children Are long since dead; but those celestial gates Survive, and keep his name and memory green.FRA SEBASTIANO. But why should I fatigue myself? I think That all things it is possible to paint Have been already painted; and if not, Why, there are painters in the world at present Who can accomplish more in two short months Than I could in two years; so it is well That some one is contented to do nothing, And leave the field to others.MICHAEL ANGELO.O blasphemer!Not without reason do the people call youSebastian del Piombo, for the leadOf all the Papal bulls is heavy upon you,And wraps you like a shroud.FRA SEBASTIANO.Misericordia!Sharp is the vinegar of sweet wine, and sharpThe words you speak, because the heart within youIs sweet unto the core.MICHAEL ANGELO.How changed you areFrom the Sebastiano I once knew,When poor, laborious, emulous to excel,You strove in rivalry with BadassareAnd Raphael Sanzio.FRA SEBASTIANO.Raphael is dead;He is but dust and ashes in his grave,While I am living and enjoying life,And so am victor. One live Pope is worthA dozen dead ones.MICHAEL ANGELO.Raphael is not dead;He doth but sleep; for how can he be deadWho lives immortal in the hearts of men?He only drank the precious wine of youth,The outbreak of the grapes, before the vintageWas trodden to bitterness by the feet of men.The gods have given him sleep. We never wereNor could be foes, although our followers,Who are distorted shadows of ourselves,Have striven to make us so; but each one workedUnconsciously upon the other's thought;Both giving and receiving. He perchanceCaught strength from me, and I some greater sweetnessAnd tenderness from his more gentle nature.I have but words of praise and admirationFor his great genius; and the world is fairerThat he lived in it.FRA SEBASTIANO.We at least are friends;So come with me.MICHAEL ANGELO.No, no; I am best pleasedWhen I'm not asked to banquets. I have reachedA time of life when daily walks are shortened,And even the houses of our dearest friends,That used to be so near, seem far away.FRA SEBASTIANO. Then we must sup without you. We shall laugh At those who toil for fame, and make their lives A tedious martyrdom, that they may live A little longer in the mouths of men! And so, good-night.MICHAEL ANGELO.Good-night, my Fra Bastiano.[Returning to his work.How will men speak of me when I am gone, When all this colorless, sad life is ended, And I am dust? They will remember only The wrinkled forehead, the marred countenance, The rudeness of my speech, and my rough manners, And never dream that underneath them all There was a woman's heart of tenderness. They will not know the secret of my life, Locked up in silence, or but vaguely hinted In uncouth rhymes, that may perchance survive Some little space in memories of men! Each one performs his life-work, and then leaves it; Those that come after him will estimate His influence on the age in which he lived.VPALAZZO BELVEDERETITIAN'S studio. A painting of Danae with a curtain before it. TITIAN, MICHAEL ANGELO, and GIORGIO VASARI.MICHAEL ANGELO. So you have left at last your still lagoons, Your City of Silence floating in the sea, And come to us in Rome.TITIAN.I come to learn,But I have come too late. I should have seenRome in my youth, when all my mind was openTo new impressions. Our Vasari hereLeads me about, a blind man, groping darklyAmong the marvels of the past. I touch them,But do not see them.MICHAEL ANGELO.There are things in RomeThat one might walk bare-footed here from VeniceBut to see once, and then to die content.TITIAN. I must confess that these majestic ruins Oppress me with their gloom. I feel as one Who in the twilight stumbles among tombs, And cannot read the inscriptions carved upon them.MICHAEL ANGELO. I felt so once; but I have grown familiar With desolation, and it has become No more a pain to me, but a delight.TITIAN. I could not live here. I must have the sea, And the sea-mist, with sunshine interwoven Like cloth of gold; must have beneath my windows The laughter of the waves, and at my door Their pattering footsteps, or I am not happy.MICHAEL ANGELO. Then tell me of your city in the sea, Paved with red basalt of the Paduan hills. Tell me of art in Venice. Three great names, Giorgione, Titian, and the Tintoretto, Illustrate your Venetian school, and send A challenge to the world. The first is dead, But Tintoretto lives.TITIAN.And paints with firesSudden and splendid, as the lightning paintsThe cloudy vault of heaven.GIORGIO.Does he still keepAbove his door the arrogant inscriptionThat once was painted there,—"The color of Titian,With the design of Michael Angelo"?TITIAN. Indeed, I know not. 'T was a foolish boast, And does no harm to any but himself. Perhaps he has grown wiser.MICHAEL ANGELO.When you twoAre gone, who is there that remains behindTo seize the pencil falling from your fingers?GIORGIO. Oh there are many hands upraised already To clutch at such a prize, which hardly wait For death to loose your grasp,—a hundred of them; Schiavone, Bonifazio, Campagnola, Moretto, and Moroni; who can count them, Or measure their ambition?TITIAN.When we are goneThe generation that comes after usWill have far other thoughts than ours. Our ruinsWill serve to build their palaces or tombs.They will possess the world that we think ours,And fashion it far otherwise.MICHAEL ANGELO.I hearYour son Orazio and your nephew MarcoMentioned with honor.TITIAN.Ay, brave lads, brave lads.But time will show. There is a youth in Venice,One Paul Cagliari, called the Veronese,Still a mere stripling, but of such rare promiseThat we must guard our laurels, or may lose them.MICHAEL ANGELO. These are good tidings; for I sometimes fear That, when we die, with us all art will die. 'T is but a fancy. Nature will provide Others to take our places. I rejoice To see the young spring forward in the race, Eager as we were, and as full of hope And the sublime audacity of youth.TITIAN. Men die and are forgotten. The great world Goes on the same. Among the myriads Of men that live, or have lived, or shall live What is a single life, or thine or mime, That we should think all nature would stand still If we were gone? We must make room for others.MICHAEL ANGELO. And now, Maestro, pray unveil your picture Of Danae, of which I hear such praise.TITIAN, drawing hack the curtain.What think you?MICHAEL ANGELO.That Acrisius did wellTo lock such beauty in a brazen towerAnd hide it from all eyes.TITIAN.The model trulyWas beautiful.MICHAEL ANGELO. And more, that you were present, And saw the showery Jove from high Olympus Descend in all his splendor.TITIAN.From your lipsSuch words are full of sweetness.MICHAEL ANGELO.You have caughtThese golden hues from your Venetian sunsets.TITIAN. Possibly.MICHAEL ANGELO.Or from sunshine through a showerOn the lagoons, or the broad Adriatic.Nature reveals herself in all our arts.The pavements and the palaces of citiesHint at the nature of the neighboring hills.Red lavas from the Euganean quarriesOf Padua pave your streets; your palacesAre the white stones of Istria, and gleamReflected in your waters and your pictures.And thus the works of every artist showSomething of his surroundings and his habits.The uttermost that can be reached by colorIs here accomplished. Warmth and light and softnessMingle together. Never yet was fleshPainted by hand of artist, dead or living,With such divine perfection.TITIAN.I am gratefulFor so much praise from you, who are a master;While mostly those who praise and those who blameKnow nothing of the matter, so that mainlyTheir censure sounds like praise, their praise like censure.MICHAEL ANGELO. Wonderful! wonderful! The charm of color Fascinates me the more that in myself The gift is wanting. I am not a painter.GIORGIO. Messer Michele, all the arts are yours, Not one alone; and therefore I may venture To put a question to you.MICHAEL ANGELO.Well, speak on.GIORGIO. Two nephews of the Cardinal Farnese Have made me umpire in dispute between them Which is the greater of the sister arts, Painting or sculpture. Solve for me the doubt.MICHAEL ANGELO. Sculpture and painting have a common goal, And whosoever would attain to it, Whichever path he take, will find that goal Equally hard to reach.GIORGIO.No doubt, no doubt;But you evade the question.MICHAEL ANGELO.When I standIn presence of this picture, I concedeThat painting has attained its uttermost;But in the presence of my sculptured figuresI feel that my conception soars beyondAll limit I have reached.GIORGIO.You still evade me.MICHAEL ANGELO. Giorgio Vasari, I have often said That I account that painting as the best Which most resembles sculpture. Here before us We have the proof. Behold those rounded limbs! How from the canvas they detach themselves, Till they deceive the eye, and one would say, It is a statue with a screen behind it!TITIAN. Signori, pardon me; but all such questions Seem to me idle.MICHAEL ANGELO.Idle as the wind.And now, Maestro, I will say once moreHow admirable I esteem your work,And leave you, without further interruption.TITIAN. Your friendly visit hath much honored me.GIOROIO. Farewell.MICHAEL ANGELO to GIORGIO, going out.If the Venetian painters knewBut half as much of drawing as of color,They would indeed work miracles in art,And the world see what it hath never seen.VIPALAZZO CESARINIVITTORIA COLONNA, seated in an armchair; JULIA GONZAGA, standing near her.JULIA. It grieves me that I find you still so weak And suffering.VITTORIA.No, not suffering; only dying.Death is the chillness that precedes the dawn;We shudder for a moment, then awakeIn the broad sunshine of the other life.I am a shadow, merely, and these hands,These cheeks, these eyes, these tresses that my husbandOnce thought so beautiful, and I was proud ofBecause he thought them so, are faded quite,—All beauty gone from them.JULIA.Ah, no, not that.Paler you are, but not less beautiful.VITTORIA. Hand me the mirror. I would fain behold What change comes o'er our features when we die. Thank you. And now sit down beside me here How glad I am that you have come to-day, Above all other days, and at the hour When most I need you!JULIA.Do you ever need me?VICTORIA.Always, and most of all to-day and now. Do you remember, Julia, when we walked, One afternoon, upon the castle terrace At Ischia, on the day before you left me?JULIA. Well I remember; but it seems to me Something unreal, that has never been,— Something that I have read of in a book, Or heard of some one else.VITTORIA.Ten years and moreHave passed since then; and many things have happenedIn those ten years, and many friends have died:Marco Flaminio, whom we all admiredAnd loved as our Catullus; dear Valldesso,The noble champion of free thought and speech;And Cardinal Ippolito, your friend.JULIA. Oh, do not speak of him! His sudden death O'ercomes me now, as it o'ercame me then. Let me forget it; for my memory Serves me too often as an unkind friend, And I remember things I would forget, While I forget the things I would remember.VITTORIA. Forgive me; I will speak of him no more, The good Fra Bernardino has departed, Has fled from Italy, and crossed the Alps, Fearing Caraffa's wrath, because he taught That He who made us all without our help Could also save us without aid of ours. Renee of France, the Duchess of Ferrara, That Lily of the Loire, is bowed by winds That blow from Rome; Olympia Morata Banished from court because of this new doctrine. Therefore be cautious. Keep your secret thought Locked in your breast.JULIA.I will be very prudentBut speak no more, I pray; it wearies you.VITTORIA. Yes, I am very weary. Read to me.JULIA. Most willingly. What shall I read?VITTORIA.Petrarca'sTriumph of Death. The book lies on the table;Beside the casket there. Read where you findThe leaf turned down. 'T was there I left off reading.JULIA, reads."Not as a flame that by some force is spent,But one that of itself consumeth quite,Departed hence in peace the soul content,In fashion of a soft and lucent lightWhose nutriment by slow gradation goes,Keeping until the end its lustre bright.Not pale, but whiter than the sheet of snowsThat without wind on some fair hill-top lies,Her weary body seemed to find repose.Like a sweet slumber in her lovely eyes,When now the spirit was no longer there,Was what is dying called by the unwise.E'en Death itself in her fair face seemed fair"—Is it of Laura that he here is speaking?— She doth not answer, yet is not asleep; Her eyes are full of light and fixed on something Above her in the air. I can see naught Except the painted angels on the ceiling. Vittoria! speak! What is it? Answer me!— She only smiles, and stretches out her hands.[The mirror falls and breaks.VITTORIA. Not disobedient to the heavenly vision! Pescara! my Pescara! [Dies.JULIA.Holy Virgin!Her body sinks together,—she is dead![Kneels and hides her face in Vittoria's lap.Enter MICHAEL ANGELO.JULIA. Hush! make no noise.MICHAEL ANGELO.How is she?JULIA.Never better.MICHAEL ANGELO. Then she is dead!JULIA.Alas! yes, she is dead!Even death itself in her fair face seems fair.How wonderful! The light upon her faceShines from the windows of another world.Saint only have such faces. Holy Angels!Bear her like sainted Catherine to her rest![Kisses Vittoria's hand.PART THIRDIMONOLOGUEMacello de' Corvi. A room in MICHAEL ANGELO'S house. MICHAEL ANGELO, standing before a model of St. Peter's.MICHAEL ANGELO. Better than thou I cannot, Brunelleschi, And less than thou I will not! If the thought Could, like a windlass, lift the ponderous stones And swing them to their places; if a breath Could blow this rounded dome into the air, As if it were a bubble, and these statues Spring at a signal to their sacred stations, As sentinels mount guard upon a wall. Then were my task completed. Now, alas! Naught am I but a Saint Sebaldus, holding Upon his hand the model of a church, As German artists paint him; and what years, What weary years, must drag themselves along, Ere this be turned to stone! What hindrances Must block the way; what idle interferences Of Cardinals and Canons of St. Peter's, Who nothing know of art beyond the color Of cloaks and stockings, nor of any building Save that of their own fortunes! And what then? I must then the short-coming of my means Piece out by stepping forward, as the Spartan Was told to add a step to his short sword.[A pause.And is Fra Bastian dead? Is all that light Gone out, that sunshine darkened; all that music And merriment, that used to make our lives Less melancholy, swallowed up in silence Like madrigals sung in the street at night By passing revellers? It is strange indeed That he should die before me. 'T is against The laws of nature that the young should die, And the old live; unless it be that some Have long been dead who think themselves alive, Because not buried. Well, what matters it, Since now that greater light, that was my sun, Is set, and all is darkness, all is darkness! Death's lightnings strike to right and left of me, And, like a ruined wall, the world around me Crumbles away, and I am left alone. I have no friends, and want none. My own thoughts Are now my sole companions,—thoughts of her, That like a benediction from the skies Come to me in my solitude and soothe me. When men are old, the incessant thought of Death Follows them like their shadow; sits with them At every meal; sleeps with them when they sleep; And when they wake already is awake, And standing by their bedside. Then, what folly It is in us to make an enemy Of this importunate follower, not a friend! To me a friend, and not an enemy, Has he become since all my friends are dead.IIVIGNA DI PAPA GIULIOPOPE JULIUS III. seated by the Fountain of Acqua Vergine, surrounded by Cardinals.JULIUS. Tell me, why is it ye are discontent, You, Cardinals Salviati and Marcello, With Michael Angelo? What has he done, Or left undone, that ye are set against him? When one Pope dies, another is soon made; And I can make a dozen Cardinals, But cannot make one Michael Angelo.CARDINAL SALVIATI. Your Holiness, we are not set against him; We but deplore his incapacity. He is too old.JULIUS.You, Cardinal Salviati,Are an old man. Are you incapable?'T is the old ox that draws the straightest furrow.CARDINAL MARCELLO. Your Holiness remembers he was charged With the repairs upon St. Mary's bridge; Made cofferdams, and heaped up load on load Of timber and travertine; and yet for years The bridge remained unfinished, till we gave it To Baccio Bigio.JULIUS.Always Baccio Bigio!Is there no other architect on earth?Was it not he that sometime had in chargeThe harbor of Ancona.CARDINAL MARCELLO.Ay, the same.JULIUS. Then let me tell you that your Baccio Bigio Did greater damage in a single day To that fair harbor than the sea had done Or would do in ten years. And him you think To put in place of Michael Angelo, In building the Basilica of St. Peter! The ass that thinks himself a stag discovers His error when he comes to leap the ditch.CARDINAL MARCELLO. He does not build; he but demolishes The labors of Bramante and San Gallo.JULIUS. Only to build more grandly.CARDINAL MARCELLO.But time passes:Year after year goes by, and yet the workIs not completed. Michael AngeloIs a great sculptor, but no architect.His plans are faulty.JULIUS.I have seen his model,And have approved it. But here comes the artist.Beware of him. He may make Persians of you,To carry burdens on your backs forever.SCENE II.The same: MICHAEL ANGELO.JULIUS. Come forward, dear Maestro! In these gardens All ceremonies of our court are banished. Sit down beside me here.MICHAEL ANGELO, sitting down.How graciouslyYour Holiness commiserates old ageAnd its infirmities!JULIUS.Say its privileges.Art I respect. The building of this palaceAnd laying out these pleasant garden walksAre my delight, and if I have not askedYour aid in this, it is that I forbearTo lay new burdens on you at an ageWhen you need rest. Here I escape from RomeTo be at peace. The tumult of the cityScarce reaches here.MICHAEL ANGELO.How beautiful it is,And quiet almost as a hermitage!JULIUS. We live as hermits here; and from these heights O'erlook all Rome and see the yellow Tiber Cleaving in twain the city, like a sword, As far below there as St. Mary's bridge. What think you of that bridge?MICHAEL ANGELO.I would adviseYour Holiness not to cross it, or not oftenIt is not safe.JULIUS.It was repaired of late.MICHAEL ANGELO. Some morning you will look for it in vain; It will be gone. The current of the river Is undermining it.JULIUS.But you repaired it.MICHAEL ANGELO. I strengthened all its piers, and paved its road With travertine. He who came after me Removed the stone, and sold it, and filled in The space with gravel.JULIUS.Cardinal SalviatiAnd Cardinal Marcello, do you listen?This is your famous Nanni Baccio Bigio.MICHAEL ANGELO, aside. There is some mystery here. These Cardinals Stand lowering at me with unfriendly eyes.JULIUS. Now let us come to what concerns us more Than bridge or gardens. Some complaints are made Concerning the Three Chapels in St. Peter's; Certain supposed defects or imperfections, You doubtless can explain.MICHAEL ANGELO.This is no longerThe golden age of art. Men have becomeIconoclasts and critics. They delight notIn what an artist does, but set themselvesTo censure what they do not comprehend.You will not see them bearing a MadonnaOf Cimabue to the church in triumph,But tearing down the statue of a PopeTo cast it into cannon. Who are theyThat bring complaints against me?JULIUS.DeputiesOf the commissioners; and they complainOf insufficient light in the Three Chapels.MICHAEL ANGELO. Your Holiness, the insufficient light Is somewhere else, and not in the Three Chapels. Who are the deputies that make complaint?JULIUS. The Cardinals Salviati and Marcello, Here present.MICHAEL ANGELO, rising.With permission, Monsignori,What is it ye complain of?CARDINAL MARCELLO,We regretYou have departed from Bramante's plan,And from San Gallo's.MICHAEL ANGELO.Since the ancient timeNo greater architect has lived on earthThan Lazzari Bramante. His design,Without confusion, simple, clear, well-lighted.Merits all praise, and to depart from itWould be departing from the truth. San Gallo,Building about with columns, took all lightOut of this plan; left in the choir dark cornersFor infinite ribaldries, and lurking placesFor rogues and robbers; so that when the churchWas shut at night, not five and twenty menCould find them out. It was San Gallo, then,That left the church in darkness, and not I.CARDINAL MARCELLO. Excuse me; but in each of the Three Chapels Is but a single window.MICHAEL ANGELO.Monsignore,Perhaps you do not know that in the vaultingAbove there are to go three other windows.CARDINAL SALVIATI. How should we know? You never told us of it.MICHAEL ANGELO. I neither am obliged, nor will I be, To tell your Eminence or any other What I intend or ought to do. Your office Is to provide the means, and see that thieves Do not lay hands upon them. The designs Must all be left to me.CARDINAL MARCELLO.Sir architect,You do forget yourself, to speak thus rudelyIn presence of his Holiness, and to usWho are his cardinals.MICHAEL ANGELO, putting on his hat.I do not forgetI am descended from the Counts Canossa,Linked with the Imperial line, and with Matilda,Who gave the Church Saint Peter's Patrimony.I, too, am proud to give unto the ChurchThe labor of these hands, and what of lifeRemains to me. My father BuonarottiWas Podesta of Chiusi and Caprese.I am not used to have men speak to meAs if I were a mason, hired to buildA garden wall, and paid on SaturdaysSo much an hour.CARDINAL SALVIATI, aside.No wonder that Pope ClementNever sat down in presence of this man,Lest he should do the same; and always bade himPut on his hat, lest he unasked should do it!MICHAEL ANGELO. If any one could die of grief and shame, I should. This labor was imposed upon me; I did not seek it; and if I assumed it, 'T was not for love of fame or love of gain, But for the love of God. Perhaps old age Deceived me, or self-interest, or ambition; I may be doing harm instead of good. Therefore, I pray your Holiness, release me; Take off from me the burden of this work; Let me go back to Florence.JULIUS.Never, never,While I am living.MICHAEL ANGELO.Doth your HolinessRemember what the Holy Scriptures sayOf the inevitable time, when thoseWho look out of the windows shall be darkened,And the almond-tree shall flourish?JULIUS.That is inEcclesiastes.MICHAEL ANGELO.And the grasshopperShall be a burden, and desire shall fail,Because man goeth unto his long home.Vanity of vanities, saith the Preacher; allIs vanity.JULIUS.Ah, were to do a thingAs easy as to dream of doing it,We should not want for artists. But the menWho carry out in act their great designsAre few in number; ay, they may be countedUpon the fingers of this hand. Your placeIs at St. Peter's.MICHAEL ANGELO.I have had my dream,And cannot carry out my great conception,And put it into act.JULIUS.Then who can do it?You would but leave it to some Baccio BigioTo mangle and deface.MICHAEL ANGELO.Rather than thatI will still bear the burden on my shouldersA little longer. If your HolinessWill keep the world in order, and will leaveThe building of the church to me, the workWill go on better for it. Holy Father,If all the labors that I have endured,And shall endure, advantage not my soul,I am but losing time.JULIUS, laying his hands on MICHAEL ANGELO'S shoulders.You will be gainerBoth for your soul and body.MICHAEL ANGELO.Not eventsExasperate me, but the funest conclusionsI draw from these events; the sure declineOf art, and all the meaning of that word:All that embellishes and sweetens life,And lifts it from the level of low caresInto the purer atmosphere of beauty;The faith in the Ideal; the inspirationThat made the canons of the church of SevilleSay, "Let us build, so that all men hereafterWill say that we were madmen." Holy Father,I beg permission to retire from here.JULIUS. Go; and my benediction be upon you.[Michael Angelo goes out.My Cardinals, this Michael Angelo Must not be dealt with as a common mason. He comes of noble blood, and for his crest Bear two bull's horns; and he has given us proof That he can toss with them. From this day forth Unto the end of time, let no man utter The name of Baccio Bigio in my presence. All great achievements are the natural fruits Of a great character. As trees bear not Their fruits of the same size and quality, But each one in its kind with equal ease, So are great deeds as natural to great men As mean things are to small ones. By his work We know the master. Let us not perplex him.IIIBINDO ALTOVITIA street in Rome. BINDO ALTOVITI, standing at the door of his house.MICHAEL ANGELO, passing.BINDO. Good-morning, Messer Michael Angelo!MICHAEL ANGELO. Good-morning, Messer Bindo Altoviti!BINDO. What brings you forth so early?MICHAEL ANGELO.The same reasonThat keeps you standing sentinel at your door,—The air of this delicious summer morning.What news have you from Florence?BINDO.Nothing new;The same old tale of violence and wrong.Since the disastrous day at Monte Murlo,When in procession, through San Gallo's gate,Bareheaded, clothed in rags, on sorry steeds,Philippo Strozzi and the good ValoriWere led as prisoners down the streets of Florence,Amid the shouts of an ungrateful people,Hope is no more, and liberty no more.Duke Cosimo, the tyrant, reigns supreme.MICHAEL ANGELO. Florence is dead: her houses are but tombs; Silence and solitude are in her streets.BINDO. Ah yes; and often I repeat the words You wrote upon your statue of the Night, There in the Sacristy of San Lorenzo: "Grateful to me is sleep; to be of stone More grateful, while the wrong and shame endure; To see not, feel not, is a benediction; Therefore awake me not; oh, speak in whispers."MICHAEL ANGELO. Ah, Messer Bindo, the calamities, The fallen fortunes, and the desolation Of Florence are to me a tragedy Deeper than words, and darker than despair. I, who have worshipped freedom from my cradle, Have loved her with the passion of a lover, And clothed her with all lovely attributes That the imagination can conceive, Or the heart conjure up, now see her dead, And trodden in the dust beneath the feet Of an adventurer! It is a grief Too great for me to bear in my old age.BINDO. I say no news from Florence: I am wrong, For Benvenuto writes that he is coming To be my guest in Rome.MICHAEL ANGELO.Those are good tidings.He hath been many years away from us.BINDO. Pray you, come in.MICHAEL ANGELO.I have not time to stay,And yet I will. I see from here your houseIs filled with works of art. That bust in bronzeIs of yourself. Tell me, who is the masterThat works in such an admirable way,And with such power and feeling?BINDO.Benvenuto.MICHAEL ANGELO. Ah? Benvenuto? 'T is a masterpiece! It pleases me as much, and even more, Than the antiques about it; and yet they Are of the best one sees. But you have placed it By far too high. The light comes from below, And injures the expression. Were these windows Above and not beneath it, then indeed It would maintain its own among these works Of the old masters, noble as they are. I will go in and study it more closely. I always prophesied that Benvenuto, With all his follies and fantastic ways, Would show his genius in some work of art That would amaze the world, and be a challenge Unto all other artists of his time.[They go in.IVIN THE COLISEUMMICHAEL ANGELO and TOMASO DE CAVALIERICAVALIERI. What have you here alone, Messer Michele?MICHAEL ANGELO. I come to learn.
FRA SEBASTIANO.And the dullest;And only to be read in episodes.His day is past. Petrarca is our poet.
MICHAEL ANGELO. Petrarca is for women and for lovers And for those soft Abati, who delight To wander down long garden walks in summer, Tinkling their little sonnets all day long, As lap dogs do their bells.
FRA SEBASTIANO.I love Petrarca.How sweetly of his absent love he singsWhen journeying in the forest of Ardennes!"I seem to hear her, hearing the boughs and breezesAnd leaves and birds lamenting, and the watersMurmuring flee along the verdant herbage."
MICHAEL ANGELO. Enough. It is all seeming, and no being. If you would know how a man speaks in earnest, Read here this passage, where St. Peter thunders In Paradise against degenerate Popes And the corruptions of the church, till all The heaven about him blushes like a sunset. I beg you to take note of what he says About the Papal seals, for that concerns Your office and yourself.
FRA SEBASTIANO, reading.Is this the passage?"Nor I be made the figure of a sealTo privileges venal and mendacious,Whereat I often redden and flash with fire!"—That is not poetry.
MICHAEL ANGELO.What is it, then?
FRA SEBASTIANO. Vituperation; gall that might have spirited From Aretino's pen.
MICHAEL ANGELO.Name not that man!A profligate, whom your Francesco BerniDescribes as having one foot in the brothelAnd the other in the hospital; who livesBy flattering or maligning, as best servesHis purpose at the time. He writes to meWith easy arrogance of my Last Judgment,In such familiar tone that one would sayThe great event already had occurred,And he was present, and from observationInformed me how the picture should be painted.
FRA SEBASTIANO. What unassuming, unobtrusive men These critics are! Now, to have Aretino Aiming his shafts at you brings back to mind The Gascon archers in the square of Milan, Shooting their arrows at Duke Sforza's statue, By Leonardo, and the foolish rabble Of envious Florentines, that at your David Threw stones at night. But Aretino praised you.
MICHAEL ANGELO. His praises were ironical. He knows How to use words as weapons, and to wound While seeming to defend. But look, Bastiano, See how the setting sun lights up that picture!
FRA SEBASTIANO. My portrait of Vittoria Colonna.
MICHAEL ANGELO. It makes her look as she will look hereafter, When she becomes a saint!
FRA SEBASTIANO.A noble woman!
MICHAEL ANGELO. Ah, these old hands can fashion fairer shapes In marble, and can paint diviner pictures, Since I have known her.
FRA SEBASTIANO.And you like this picture.And yet it is in oil; which you detest.
MICHAEL ANGELO. When that barbarian Jan Van Eyck discovered The use of oil in painting, he degraded His art into a handicraft, and made it Sign-painting, merely, for a country inn Or wayside wine-shop. 'T is an art for women, Or for such leisurely and idle people As you, Fra Bastiano. Nature paints not In oils, but frescoes the great dome of heaven With sunset; and the lovely forms of clouds And flying vapors.
FRA SEBASTIANO.And how soon they fade!Behold yon line of roofs and belfries paintedUpon the golden background of the sky,Like a Byzantine picture, or a portraitOf Cimabue. See how hard the outline,Sharp-cut and clear, not rounded into shadow.Yet that is nature.
MICHAEL ANGELO.She is always right.The picture that approaches sculpture nearestIs the best picture.
FRA SEBASTIANO.Leonardo thinksThe open air too bright. We ought to paintAs if the sun were shining through a mist.'T is easier done in oil than in distemper.
MICHAEL ANGELO. Do not revive again the old dispute; I have an excellent memory for forgetting, But I still feel the hurt. Wounds are not healed By the unbending of the bow that made them.
FRA SEBASTIANO. So say Petrarca and the ancient proverb.
MICHAEL ANGELO. But that is past. Now I am angry with you, Not that you paint in oils, but that grown fat And indolent, you do not paint at all.
FRA SEBASTIANO. Why should I paint? Why should I toil and sweat, Who now am rich enough to live at ease, And take my pleasure?
MICHAEL ANGELO.When Pope Leo died,He who had been so lavish of the wealthHis predecessors left him, who receivedA basket of gold-pieces every morning,Which every night was empty, left behindHardly enough to pay his funeral.
FRA SEBASTIANO. I care for banquets, not for funerals, As did his Holiness. I have forbidden All tapers at my burial, and procession Of priests and friars and monks; and have provided The cost thereof be given to the poor!
MICHAEL ANGELO. You have done wisely, but of that I speak not. Ghiberti left behind him wealth and children; But who to-day would know that he had lived, If he had never made those gates of bronze In the old Baptistery,—those gates of bronze, Worthy to be the gates of Paradise. His wealth is scattered to the winds; his children Are long since dead; but those celestial gates Survive, and keep his name and memory green.
FRA SEBASTIANO. But why should I fatigue myself? I think That all things it is possible to paint Have been already painted; and if not, Why, there are painters in the world at present Who can accomplish more in two short months Than I could in two years; so it is well That some one is contented to do nothing, And leave the field to others.
MICHAEL ANGELO.O blasphemer!Not without reason do the people call youSebastian del Piombo, for the leadOf all the Papal bulls is heavy upon you,And wraps you like a shroud.
FRA SEBASTIANO.Misericordia!Sharp is the vinegar of sweet wine, and sharpThe words you speak, because the heart within youIs sweet unto the core.
MICHAEL ANGELO.How changed you areFrom the Sebastiano I once knew,When poor, laborious, emulous to excel,You strove in rivalry with BadassareAnd Raphael Sanzio.
FRA SEBASTIANO.Raphael is dead;He is but dust and ashes in his grave,While I am living and enjoying life,And so am victor. One live Pope is worthA dozen dead ones.
MICHAEL ANGELO.Raphael is not dead;He doth but sleep; for how can he be deadWho lives immortal in the hearts of men?He only drank the precious wine of youth,The outbreak of the grapes, before the vintageWas trodden to bitterness by the feet of men.The gods have given him sleep. We never wereNor could be foes, although our followers,Who are distorted shadows of ourselves,Have striven to make us so; but each one workedUnconsciously upon the other's thought;Both giving and receiving. He perchanceCaught strength from me, and I some greater sweetnessAnd tenderness from his more gentle nature.I have but words of praise and admirationFor his great genius; and the world is fairerThat he lived in it.
FRA SEBASTIANO.We at least are friends;So come with me.
MICHAEL ANGELO.No, no; I am best pleasedWhen I'm not asked to banquets. I have reachedA time of life when daily walks are shortened,And even the houses of our dearest friends,That used to be so near, seem far away.
FRA SEBASTIANO. Then we must sup without you. We shall laugh At those who toil for fame, and make their lives A tedious martyrdom, that they may live A little longer in the mouths of men! And so, good-night.
MICHAEL ANGELO.Good-night, my Fra Bastiano.
[Returning to his work.
How will men speak of me when I am gone, When all this colorless, sad life is ended, And I am dust? They will remember only The wrinkled forehead, the marred countenance, The rudeness of my speech, and my rough manners, And never dream that underneath them all There was a woman's heart of tenderness. They will not know the secret of my life, Locked up in silence, or but vaguely hinted In uncouth rhymes, that may perchance survive Some little space in memories of men! Each one performs his life-work, and then leaves it; Those that come after him will estimate His influence on the age in which he lived.
TITIAN'S studio. A painting of Danae with a curtain before it. TITIAN, MICHAEL ANGELO, and GIORGIO VASARI.
MICHAEL ANGELO. So you have left at last your still lagoons, Your City of Silence floating in the sea, And come to us in Rome.
TITIAN.I come to learn,But I have come too late. I should have seenRome in my youth, when all my mind was openTo new impressions. Our Vasari hereLeads me about, a blind man, groping darklyAmong the marvels of the past. I touch them,But do not see them.
MICHAEL ANGELO.There are things in RomeThat one might walk bare-footed here from VeniceBut to see once, and then to die content.
TITIAN. I must confess that these majestic ruins Oppress me with their gloom. I feel as one Who in the twilight stumbles among tombs, And cannot read the inscriptions carved upon them.
MICHAEL ANGELO. I felt so once; but I have grown familiar With desolation, and it has become No more a pain to me, but a delight.
TITIAN. I could not live here. I must have the sea, And the sea-mist, with sunshine interwoven Like cloth of gold; must have beneath my windows The laughter of the waves, and at my door Their pattering footsteps, or I am not happy.
MICHAEL ANGELO. Then tell me of your city in the sea, Paved with red basalt of the Paduan hills. Tell me of art in Venice. Three great names, Giorgione, Titian, and the Tintoretto, Illustrate your Venetian school, and send A challenge to the world. The first is dead, But Tintoretto lives.
TITIAN.And paints with firesSudden and splendid, as the lightning paintsThe cloudy vault of heaven.
GIORGIO.Does he still keepAbove his door the arrogant inscriptionThat once was painted there,—"The color of Titian,With the design of Michael Angelo"?
TITIAN. Indeed, I know not. 'T was a foolish boast, And does no harm to any but himself. Perhaps he has grown wiser.
MICHAEL ANGELO.When you twoAre gone, who is there that remains behindTo seize the pencil falling from your fingers?
GIORGIO. Oh there are many hands upraised already To clutch at such a prize, which hardly wait For death to loose your grasp,—a hundred of them; Schiavone, Bonifazio, Campagnola, Moretto, and Moroni; who can count them, Or measure their ambition?
TITIAN.When we are goneThe generation that comes after usWill have far other thoughts than ours. Our ruinsWill serve to build their palaces or tombs.They will possess the world that we think ours,And fashion it far otherwise.
MICHAEL ANGELO.I hearYour son Orazio and your nephew MarcoMentioned with honor.
TITIAN.Ay, brave lads, brave lads.But time will show. There is a youth in Venice,One Paul Cagliari, called the Veronese,Still a mere stripling, but of such rare promiseThat we must guard our laurels, or may lose them.
MICHAEL ANGELO. These are good tidings; for I sometimes fear That, when we die, with us all art will die. 'T is but a fancy. Nature will provide Others to take our places. I rejoice To see the young spring forward in the race, Eager as we were, and as full of hope And the sublime audacity of youth.
TITIAN. Men die and are forgotten. The great world Goes on the same. Among the myriads Of men that live, or have lived, or shall live What is a single life, or thine or mime, That we should think all nature would stand still If we were gone? We must make room for others.
MICHAEL ANGELO. And now, Maestro, pray unveil your picture Of Danae, of which I hear such praise.
TITIAN, drawing hack the curtain.
What think you?
MICHAEL ANGELO.That Acrisius did wellTo lock such beauty in a brazen towerAnd hide it from all eyes.
TITIAN.The model trulyWas beautiful.
MICHAEL ANGELO. And more, that you were present, And saw the showery Jove from high Olympus Descend in all his splendor.
TITIAN.From your lipsSuch words are full of sweetness.
MICHAEL ANGELO.You have caughtThese golden hues from your Venetian sunsets.
TITIAN. Possibly.
MICHAEL ANGELO.Or from sunshine through a showerOn the lagoons, or the broad Adriatic.Nature reveals herself in all our arts.The pavements and the palaces of citiesHint at the nature of the neighboring hills.Red lavas from the Euganean quarriesOf Padua pave your streets; your palacesAre the white stones of Istria, and gleamReflected in your waters and your pictures.And thus the works of every artist showSomething of his surroundings and his habits.The uttermost that can be reached by colorIs here accomplished. Warmth and light and softnessMingle together. Never yet was fleshPainted by hand of artist, dead or living,With such divine perfection.
TITIAN.I am gratefulFor so much praise from you, who are a master;While mostly those who praise and those who blameKnow nothing of the matter, so that mainlyTheir censure sounds like praise, their praise like censure.
MICHAEL ANGELO. Wonderful! wonderful! The charm of color Fascinates me the more that in myself The gift is wanting. I am not a painter.
GIORGIO. Messer Michele, all the arts are yours, Not one alone; and therefore I may venture To put a question to you.
MICHAEL ANGELO.Well, speak on.
GIORGIO. Two nephews of the Cardinal Farnese Have made me umpire in dispute between them Which is the greater of the sister arts, Painting or sculpture. Solve for me the doubt.
MICHAEL ANGELO. Sculpture and painting have a common goal, And whosoever would attain to it, Whichever path he take, will find that goal Equally hard to reach.
GIORGIO.No doubt, no doubt;But you evade the question.
MICHAEL ANGELO.When I standIn presence of this picture, I concedeThat painting has attained its uttermost;But in the presence of my sculptured figuresI feel that my conception soars beyondAll limit I have reached.
GIORGIO.You still evade me.
MICHAEL ANGELO. Giorgio Vasari, I have often said That I account that painting as the best Which most resembles sculpture. Here before us We have the proof. Behold those rounded limbs! How from the canvas they detach themselves, Till they deceive the eye, and one would say, It is a statue with a screen behind it!
TITIAN. Signori, pardon me; but all such questions Seem to me idle.
MICHAEL ANGELO.Idle as the wind.And now, Maestro, I will say once moreHow admirable I esteem your work,And leave you, without further interruption.
TITIAN. Your friendly visit hath much honored me.
GIOROIO. Farewell.
MICHAEL ANGELO to GIORGIO, going out.
If the Venetian painters knewBut half as much of drawing as of color,They would indeed work miracles in art,And the world see what it hath never seen.
VITTORIA COLONNA, seated in an armchair; JULIA GONZAGA, standing near her.
JULIA. It grieves me that I find you still so weak And suffering.
VITTORIA.No, not suffering; only dying.Death is the chillness that precedes the dawn;We shudder for a moment, then awakeIn the broad sunshine of the other life.I am a shadow, merely, and these hands,These cheeks, these eyes, these tresses that my husbandOnce thought so beautiful, and I was proud ofBecause he thought them so, are faded quite,—All beauty gone from them.
JULIA.Ah, no, not that.Paler you are, but not less beautiful.
VITTORIA. Hand me the mirror. I would fain behold What change comes o'er our features when we die. Thank you. And now sit down beside me here How glad I am that you have come to-day, Above all other days, and at the hour When most I need you!
JULIA.Do you ever need me?
VICTORIA.
Always, and most of all to-day and now. Do you remember, Julia, when we walked, One afternoon, upon the castle terrace At Ischia, on the day before you left me?
JULIA. Well I remember; but it seems to me Something unreal, that has never been,— Something that I have read of in a book, Or heard of some one else.
VITTORIA.Ten years and moreHave passed since then; and many things have happenedIn those ten years, and many friends have died:Marco Flaminio, whom we all admiredAnd loved as our Catullus; dear Valldesso,The noble champion of free thought and speech;And Cardinal Ippolito, your friend.
JULIA. Oh, do not speak of him! His sudden death O'ercomes me now, as it o'ercame me then. Let me forget it; for my memory Serves me too often as an unkind friend, And I remember things I would forget, While I forget the things I would remember.
VITTORIA. Forgive me; I will speak of him no more, The good Fra Bernardino has departed, Has fled from Italy, and crossed the Alps, Fearing Caraffa's wrath, because he taught That He who made us all without our help Could also save us without aid of ours. Renee of France, the Duchess of Ferrara, That Lily of the Loire, is bowed by winds That blow from Rome; Olympia Morata Banished from court because of this new doctrine. Therefore be cautious. Keep your secret thought Locked in your breast.
JULIA.I will be very prudentBut speak no more, I pray; it wearies you.
VITTORIA. Yes, I am very weary. Read to me.
JULIA. Most willingly. What shall I read?
VITTORIA.Petrarca'sTriumph of Death. The book lies on the table;Beside the casket there. Read where you findThe leaf turned down. 'T was there I left off reading.
JULIA, reads.
"Not as a flame that by some force is spent,But one that of itself consumeth quite,Departed hence in peace the soul content,In fashion of a soft and lucent lightWhose nutriment by slow gradation goes,Keeping until the end its lustre bright.Not pale, but whiter than the sheet of snowsThat without wind on some fair hill-top lies,Her weary body seemed to find repose.Like a sweet slumber in her lovely eyes,When now the spirit was no longer there,Was what is dying called by the unwise.E'en Death itself in her fair face seemed fair"—
Is it of Laura that he here is speaking?— She doth not answer, yet is not asleep; Her eyes are full of light and fixed on something Above her in the air. I can see naught Except the painted angels on the ceiling. Vittoria! speak! What is it? Answer me!— She only smiles, and stretches out her hands.
[The mirror falls and breaks.
VITTORIA. Not disobedient to the heavenly vision! Pescara! my Pescara! [Dies.
JULIA.Holy Virgin!Her body sinks together,—she is dead!
[Kneels and hides her face in Vittoria's lap.
Enter MICHAEL ANGELO.
JULIA. Hush! make no noise.
MICHAEL ANGELO.How is she?
JULIA.Never better.
MICHAEL ANGELO. Then she is dead!
JULIA.Alas! yes, she is dead!Even death itself in her fair face seems fair.How wonderful! The light upon her faceShines from the windows of another world.Saint only have such faces. Holy Angels!Bear her like sainted Catherine to her rest!
[Kisses Vittoria's hand.
Macello de' Corvi. A room in MICHAEL ANGELO'S house. MICHAEL ANGELO, standing before a model of St. Peter's.
MICHAEL ANGELO. Better than thou I cannot, Brunelleschi, And less than thou I will not! If the thought Could, like a windlass, lift the ponderous stones And swing them to their places; if a breath Could blow this rounded dome into the air, As if it were a bubble, and these statues Spring at a signal to their sacred stations, As sentinels mount guard upon a wall. Then were my task completed. Now, alas! Naught am I but a Saint Sebaldus, holding Upon his hand the model of a church, As German artists paint him; and what years, What weary years, must drag themselves along, Ere this be turned to stone! What hindrances Must block the way; what idle interferences Of Cardinals and Canons of St. Peter's, Who nothing know of art beyond the color Of cloaks and stockings, nor of any building Save that of their own fortunes! And what then? I must then the short-coming of my means Piece out by stepping forward, as the Spartan Was told to add a step to his short sword.
[A pause.
And is Fra Bastian dead? Is all that light Gone out, that sunshine darkened; all that music And merriment, that used to make our lives Less melancholy, swallowed up in silence Like madrigals sung in the street at night By passing revellers? It is strange indeed That he should die before me. 'T is against The laws of nature that the young should die, And the old live; unless it be that some Have long been dead who think themselves alive, Because not buried. Well, what matters it, Since now that greater light, that was my sun, Is set, and all is darkness, all is darkness! Death's lightnings strike to right and left of me, And, like a ruined wall, the world around me Crumbles away, and I am left alone. I have no friends, and want none. My own thoughts Are now my sole companions,—thoughts of her, That like a benediction from the skies Come to me in my solitude and soothe me. When men are old, the incessant thought of Death Follows them like their shadow; sits with them At every meal; sleeps with them when they sleep; And when they wake already is awake, And standing by their bedside. Then, what folly It is in us to make an enemy Of this importunate follower, not a friend! To me a friend, and not an enemy, Has he become since all my friends are dead.
POPE JULIUS III. seated by the Fountain of Acqua Vergine, surrounded by Cardinals.
JULIUS. Tell me, why is it ye are discontent, You, Cardinals Salviati and Marcello, With Michael Angelo? What has he done, Or left undone, that ye are set against him? When one Pope dies, another is soon made; And I can make a dozen Cardinals, But cannot make one Michael Angelo.
CARDINAL SALVIATI. Your Holiness, we are not set against him; We but deplore his incapacity. He is too old.
JULIUS.You, Cardinal Salviati,Are an old man. Are you incapable?'T is the old ox that draws the straightest furrow.
CARDINAL MARCELLO. Your Holiness remembers he was charged With the repairs upon St. Mary's bridge; Made cofferdams, and heaped up load on load Of timber and travertine; and yet for years The bridge remained unfinished, till we gave it To Baccio Bigio.
JULIUS.Always Baccio Bigio!Is there no other architect on earth?Was it not he that sometime had in chargeThe harbor of Ancona.
CARDINAL MARCELLO.Ay, the same.
JULIUS. Then let me tell you that your Baccio Bigio Did greater damage in a single day To that fair harbor than the sea had done Or would do in ten years. And him you think To put in place of Michael Angelo, In building the Basilica of St. Peter! The ass that thinks himself a stag discovers His error when he comes to leap the ditch.
CARDINAL MARCELLO. He does not build; he but demolishes The labors of Bramante and San Gallo.
JULIUS. Only to build more grandly.
CARDINAL MARCELLO.But time passes:Year after year goes by, and yet the workIs not completed. Michael AngeloIs a great sculptor, but no architect.His plans are faulty.
JULIUS.I have seen his model,And have approved it. But here comes the artist.Beware of him. He may make Persians of you,To carry burdens on your backs forever.
The same: MICHAEL ANGELO.
JULIUS. Come forward, dear Maestro! In these gardens All ceremonies of our court are banished. Sit down beside me here.
MICHAEL ANGELO, sitting down.How graciouslyYour Holiness commiserates old ageAnd its infirmities!
JULIUS.Say its privileges.Art I respect. The building of this palaceAnd laying out these pleasant garden walksAre my delight, and if I have not askedYour aid in this, it is that I forbearTo lay new burdens on you at an ageWhen you need rest. Here I escape from RomeTo be at peace. The tumult of the cityScarce reaches here.
MICHAEL ANGELO.How beautiful it is,And quiet almost as a hermitage!
JULIUS. We live as hermits here; and from these heights O'erlook all Rome and see the yellow Tiber Cleaving in twain the city, like a sword, As far below there as St. Mary's bridge. What think you of that bridge?
MICHAEL ANGELO.I would adviseYour Holiness not to cross it, or not oftenIt is not safe.
JULIUS.It was repaired of late.
MICHAEL ANGELO. Some morning you will look for it in vain; It will be gone. The current of the river Is undermining it.
JULIUS.But you repaired it.
MICHAEL ANGELO. I strengthened all its piers, and paved its road With travertine. He who came after me Removed the stone, and sold it, and filled in The space with gravel.
JULIUS.Cardinal SalviatiAnd Cardinal Marcello, do you listen?This is your famous Nanni Baccio Bigio.
MICHAEL ANGELO, aside. There is some mystery here. These Cardinals Stand lowering at me with unfriendly eyes.
JULIUS. Now let us come to what concerns us more Than bridge or gardens. Some complaints are made Concerning the Three Chapels in St. Peter's; Certain supposed defects or imperfections, You doubtless can explain.
MICHAEL ANGELO.This is no longerThe golden age of art. Men have becomeIconoclasts and critics. They delight notIn what an artist does, but set themselvesTo censure what they do not comprehend.You will not see them bearing a MadonnaOf Cimabue to the church in triumph,But tearing down the statue of a PopeTo cast it into cannon. Who are theyThat bring complaints against me?
JULIUS.DeputiesOf the commissioners; and they complainOf insufficient light in the Three Chapels.
MICHAEL ANGELO. Your Holiness, the insufficient light Is somewhere else, and not in the Three Chapels. Who are the deputies that make complaint?
JULIUS. The Cardinals Salviati and Marcello, Here present.
MICHAEL ANGELO, rising.With permission, Monsignori,What is it ye complain of?
CARDINAL MARCELLO,We regretYou have departed from Bramante's plan,And from San Gallo's.
MICHAEL ANGELO.Since the ancient timeNo greater architect has lived on earthThan Lazzari Bramante. His design,Without confusion, simple, clear, well-lighted.Merits all praise, and to depart from itWould be departing from the truth. San Gallo,Building about with columns, took all lightOut of this plan; left in the choir dark cornersFor infinite ribaldries, and lurking placesFor rogues and robbers; so that when the churchWas shut at night, not five and twenty menCould find them out. It was San Gallo, then,That left the church in darkness, and not I.
CARDINAL MARCELLO. Excuse me; but in each of the Three Chapels Is but a single window.
MICHAEL ANGELO.Monsignore,Perhaps you do not know that in the vaultingAbove there are to go three other windows.
CARDINAL SALVIATI. How should we know? You never told us of it.
MICHAEL ANGELO. I neither am obliged, nor will I be, To tell your Eminence or any other What I intend or ought to do. Your office Is to provide the means, and see that thieves Do not lay hands upon them. The designs Must all be left to me.
CARDINAL MARCELLO.Sir architect,You do forget yourself, to speak thus rudelyIn presence of his Holiness, and to usWho are his cardinals.
MICHAEL ANGELO, putting on his hat.I do not forgetI am descended from the Counts Canossa,Linked with the Imperial line, and with Matilda,Who gave the Church Saint Peter's Patrimony.I, too, am proud to give unto the ChurchThe labor of these hands, and what of lifeRemains to me. My father BuonarottiWas Podesta of Chiusi and Caprese.I am not used to have men speak to meAs if I were a mason, hired to buildA garden wall, and paid on SaturdaysSo much an hour.
CARDINAL SALVIATI, aside.No wonder that Pope ClementNever sat down in presence of this man,Lest he should do the same; and always bade himPut on his hat, lest he unasked should do it!
MICHAEL ANGELO. If any one could die of grief and shame, I should. This labor was imposed upon me; I did not seek it; and if I assumed it, 'T was not for love of fame or love of gain, But for the love of God. Perhaps old age Deceived me, or self-interest, or ambition; I may be doing harm instead of good. Therefore, I pray your Holiness, release me; Take off from me the burden of this work; Let me go back to Florence.
JULIUS.Never, never,While I am living.
MICHAEL ANGELO.Doth your HolinessRemember what the Holy Scriptures sayOf the inevitable time, when thoseWho look out of the windows shall be darkened,And the almond-tree shall flourish?
JULIUS.That is inEcclesiastes.
MICHAEL ANGELO.And the grasshopperShall be a burden, and desire shall fail,Because man goeth unto his long home.Vanity of vanities, saith the Preacher; allIs vanity.
JULIUS.Ah, were to do a thingAs easy as to dream of doing it,We should not want for artists. But the menWho carry out in act their great designsAre few in number; ay, they may be countedUpon the fingers of this hand. Your placeIs at St. Peter's.
MICHAEL ANGELO.I have had my dream,And cannot carry out my great conception,And put it into act.
JULIUS.Then who can do it?You would but leave it to some Baccio BigioTo mangle and deface.
MICHAEL ANGELO.Rather than thatI will still bear the burden on my shouldersA little longer. If your HolinessWill keep the world in order, and will leaveThe building of the church to me, the workWill go on better for it. Holy Father,If all the labors that I have endured,And shall endure, advantage not my soul,I am but losing time.
JULIUS, laying his hands on MICHAEL ANGELO'S shoulders.You will be gainerBoth for your soul and body.
MICHAEL ANGELO.Not eventsExasperate me, but the funest conclusionsI draw from these events; the sure declineOf art, and all the meaning of that word:All that embellishes and sweetens life,And lifts it from the level of low caresInto the purer atmosphere of beauty;The faith in the Ideal; the inspirationThat made the canons of the church of SevilleSay, "Let us build, so that all men hereafterWill say that we were madmen." Holy Father,I beg permission to retire from here.
JULIUS. Go; and my benediction be upon you.
[Michael Angelo goes out.
My Cardinals, this Michael Angelo Must not be dealt with as a common mason. He comes of noble blood, and for his crest Bear two bull's horns; and he has given us proof That he can toss with them. From this day forth Unto the end of time, let no man utter The name of Baccio Bigio in my presence. All great achievements are the natural fruits Of a great character. As trees bear not Their fruits of the same size and quality, But each one in its kind with equal ease, So are great deeds as natural to great men As mean things are to small ones. By his work We know the master. Let us not perplex him.
A street in Rome. BINDO ALTOVITI, standing at the door of his house.
MICHAEL ANGELO, passing.
BINDO. Good-morning, Messer Michael Angelo!
MICHAEL ANGELO. Good-morning, Messer Bindo Altoviti!
BINDO. What brings you forth so early?
MICHAEL ANGELO.The same reasonThat keeps you standing sentinel at your door,—The air of this delicious summer morning.What news have you from Florence?
BINDO.Nothing new;The same old tale of violence and wrong.Since the disastrous day at Monte Murlo,When in procession, through San Gallo's gate,Bareheaded, clothed in rags, on sorry steeds,Philippo Strozzi and the good ValoriWere led as prisoners down the streets of Florence,Amid the shouts of an ungrateful people,Hope is no more, and liberty no more.Duke Cosimo, the tyrant, reigns supreme.
MICHAEL ANGELO. Florence is dead: her houses are but tombs; Silence and solitude are in her streets.
BINDO. Ah yes; and often I repeat the words You wrote upon your statue of the Night, There in the Sacristy of San Lorenzo: "Grateful to me is sleep; to be of stone More grateful, while the wrong and shame endure; To see not, feel not, is a benediction; Therefore awake me not; oh, speak in whispers."
MICHAEL ANGELO. Ah, Messer Bindo, the calamities, The fallen fortunes, and the desolation Of Florence are to me a tragedy Deeper than words, and darker than despair. I, who have worshipped freedom from my cradle, Have loved her with the passion of a lover, And clothed her with all lovely attributes That the imagination can conceive, Or the heart conjure up, now see her dead, And trodden in the dust beneath the feet Of an adventurer! It is a grief Too great for me to bear in my old age.
BINDO. I say no news from Florence: I am wrong, For Benvenuto writes that he is coming To be my guest in Rome.
MICHAEL ANGELO.Those are good tidings.He hath been many years away from us.
BINDO. Pray you, come in.
MICHAEL ANGELO.I have not time to stay,And yet I will. I see from here your houseIs filled with works of art. That bust in bronzeIs of yourself. Tell me, who is the masterThat works in such an admirable way,And with such power and feeling?
BINDO.Benvenuto.
MICHAEL ANGELO. Ah? Benvenuto? 'T is a masterpiece! It pleases me as much, and even more, Than the antiques about it; and yet they Are of the best one sees. But you have placed it By far too high. The light comes from below, And injures the expression. Were these windows Above and not beneath it, then indeed It would maintain its own among these works Of the old masters, noble as they are. I will go in and study it more closely. I always prophesied that Benvenuto, With all his follies and fantastic ways, Would show his genius in some work of art That would amaze the world, and be a challenge Unto all other artists of his time.
[They go in.
MICHAEL ANGELO and TOMASO DE CAVALIERI
CAVALIERI. What have you here alone, Messer Michele?
MICHAEL ANGELO. I come to learn.