Chapter LVIII: Prologue: At Ischia (2)

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.

II

VITERBO

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 assurance That we are not forgotten. Who shall say That from the world of spirits comes no greeting, No message of remembrance? It may be The thoughts that visit us, we know not whence, Sudden as inspiration, are the whispers Of disembodied spirits, speaking to us As 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!

III

MICHAEL ANGELO AND BENVENUTO CELLINI

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 what My father said, the first time he beheld This handsome face. But say farewell, not welcome. I come to take my leave. I start for Florence As fast as horse can carry me. I long To set once more upon its level flags These 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 ached And 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 work That will not let us sleep. I must go on Until I die.

BENVENUTO. Do you ne'er think of Florence?

MICHAEL ANGELO. Yes; whenever I think of anything beside my work, I think of Florence. I remember, too, The bitter days I passed among the quarries Of Seravezza and Pietrasanta; Road-building in the marshes; stupid people, And cold and rain incessant, and mad gusts Of mountain wind, like howling dervishes, That spun and whirled the eddying snow about them As if it were a garment; aye, vexations And troubles of all kinds, that ended only In loss of time and money.

BENVENUTO. True; Maestro, But that was not in Florence. You should leave Such work to others. Sweeter memories Cluster about you, in the pleasant city Upon the Arno.

MICHAEL ANGELO. In my waking dreams I see the marvellous dome of Brunelleschi, Ghiberti's gates of bronze, and Giotto's tower; And Ghirlandajo's lovely Benci glides With folded hands amid my troubled thoughts, A splendid vision! Time rides with the old At a great pace. As travellers on swift steeds See the near landscape fly and flow behind them, While the remoter fields and dim horizons Go with them, and seem wheeling round to meet them, So in old age things near us slip away, And distant things go with as. Pleasantly Come back to me the days when, as a youth, I walked with Ghirlandajo in the gardens Of Medici, and saw the antique statues, The forms august of gods and godlike men, And the great world of art revealed itself To my young eyes. Then all that man hath done Seemed possible to me. Alas! how little Of 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 can I 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 all A taste for homicide.

BENVENUTO. I learned that lesson Under Pope Clement at the siege of Rome, Some twenty years ago. As I was standing Upon the ramparts of the Campo Santo With Alessandro Bene, I beheld A 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 cry Out 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 artist To pass his days in stamping leaden seals On 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 great But still I like him greatly. Benvenuto Have 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 harder Then 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 diamond Presented by the Emperor to the Pope. Targhetta of Venice set and tinted it; I have reset it, and retinted it Divinely, as you see. The jewellers Say 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 word To be applied to such a precious stone, Given by an Emperor to a Pope, and set By Benvenuto!

MICHAEL ANGELO. Messer Benvenuto, I lose all patience with you; for the gifts That God hath given you are of such a kind, They should be put to far more noble uses Than setting diamonds for the Pope of Rome. You can do greater things.

BENVENUTO. The God who made me Knows why he made me what I am,--a goldsmith, A mere artificer.

MICHAEL ANGELO. Oh no; an artist Richly endowed by nature, but who wraps His talent in a napkin, and consumes His life in vanities.

BENVENUTO. Michael Angelo May say what Benvenuto would not bear From any other man. He speaks the truth. I know my life is wasted and consumed In vanities; but I have better hours And higher aspirations than you think. Once, when a prisoner at St. Angelo, Fasting and praying in the midnight darkness, In a celestial vision I beheld A crucifix in the sun, of the same substance As is the sun itself. And since that hour There is a splendor round about my head, That may be seen at sunrise and at sunset Above my shadow on the grass. And now I 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 himself To think of.

BENVENUTO. That I know full well. Now listen. I have been sent for into France, where grow The Lilies that illumine heaven and earth, And carry in mine equipage the model Of a most marvellous golden salt-cellar For the king's table; and here in my brain A statue of Mars Armipotent for the fountain Of Fontainebleau, colossal, wonderful. I go a goldsmith, to return a sculptor. And so farewell, great Master. Think of me As one who, in the midst of all his follies, Had also his ambition, and aspired To 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.

IV.

FRA SEBASTIANO DEL PIOMBO

MICHAEL ANGELO; FRA SEBASTIANO DEL PIOMBO.

MICHAEL ANGELO, not turning round. Who is it?

FRA SEBASTIANO. Wait, for I am out of breath In climbing your steep stairs.

MICHAEL ANGELO. Ah, my Bastiano, If you went up and down as many stairs As I do still, and climbed as many ladders, It would be better for you. Pray sit down. Your idle and luxurious way of living Will 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 nothing It 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 look On many gardens; o'er the city roofs See the Campagna and the Alban hills; And all are mine.

FRA SEBASTIANO. Can you sit down in them, On summer afternoons, and play the lute Or sing, or sleep the time away?

MICHAEL ANGELO. I never Sleep in the day-time; scarcely sleep at night. I have not time. Did you meet Benvenuto As you came up the stair?

FRA SEBASTIANO. He ran against me On 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 itself With useless agitations. He o'erleaps The goal he aims at. Patience is a plant That grows not in all gardens. You are made Of quite another clay.

FRA SEBASTIANO. And thank God for it. And now, being somewhat rested, I will tell you Why 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 read A 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?

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 sings When journeying in the forest of Ardennes! "I seem to hear her, hearing the boughs and breezes And leaves and birds lamenting, and the waters Murmuring 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 seal To 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 Berni Describes as having one foot in the brothel And the other in the hospital; who lives By flattering or maligning, as best serves His purpose at the time. He writes to me With easy arrogance of my Last Judgment, In such familiar tone that one would say The great event already had occurred, And he was present, and from observation Informed 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 painted Upon the golden background of the sky, Like a Byzantine picture, or a portrait Of 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 nearest Is the best picture.

FRA SEBASTIANO. Leonardo thinks The open air too bright. We ought to paint As 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 wealth His predecessors left him, who received A basket of gold-pieces every morning, Which every night was empty, left behind Hardly 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 you Sebastian del Piombo, for the lead Of 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 sharp The words you speak, because the heart within you Is sweet unto the core.

MICHAEL ANGELO. How changed you are From the Sebastiano I once knew, When poor, laborious, emulous to excel, You strove in rivalry with Badassare And 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 worth A dozen dead ones.

MICHAEL ANGELO. Raphael is not dead; He doth but sleep; for how can he be dead Who lives immortal in the hearts of men? He only drank the precious wine of youth, The outbreak of the grapes, before the vintage Was trodden to bitterness by the feet of men. The gods have given him sleep. We never were Nor could be foes, although our followers, Who are distorted shadows of ourselves, Have striven to make us so; but each one worked Unconsciously upon the other's thought; Both giving and receiving. He perchance Caught strength from me, and I some greater sweetness And tenderness from his more gentle nature. I have but words of praise and admiration For his great genius; and the world is fairer That he lived in it.

FRA SEBASTIANO. We at least are friends; So come with me.

MICHAEL ANGELO. No, no; I am best pleased When I'm not asked to banquets. I have reached A 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.

V

PALAZZO BELVEDERE

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 seen Rome in my youth, when all my mind was open To new impressions. Our Vasari here Leads me about, a blind man, groping darkly Among the marvels of the past. I touch them, But do not see them.

MICHAEL ANGELO. There are things in Rome That one might walk bare-footed here from Venice But 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 fires Sudden and splendid, as the lightning paints The cloudy vault of heaven.

GIORGIO. Does he still keep Above his door the arrogant inscription That 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 two Are gone, who is there that remains behind To 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 gone The generation that comes after us Will have far other thoughts than ours. Our ruins Will serve to build their palaces or tombs. They will possess the world that we think ours, And fashion it far otherwise.

MICHAEL ANGELO. I hear Your son Orazio and your nephew Marco Mentioned 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 promise That 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 well To lock such beauty in a brazen tower And hide it from all eyes.

TITIAN. The model truly Was 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 lips Such words are full of sweetness.

MICHAEL ANGELO. You have caught These golden hues from your Venetian sunsets.

TITIAN. Possibly.

MICHAEL ANGELO. Or from sunshine through a shower On the lagoons, or the broad Adriatic. Nature reveals herself in all our arts. The pavements and the palaces of cities Hint at the nature of the neighboring hills. Red lavas from the Euganean quarries Of Padua pave your streets; your palaces Are the white stones of Istria, and gleam Reflected in your waters and your pictures. And thus the works of every artist show Something of his surroundings and his habits. The uttermost that can be reached by color Is here accomplished. Warmth and light and softness Mingle together. Never yet was flesh Painted by hand of artist, dead or living, With such divine perfection.

TITIAN. I am grateful For so much praise from you, who are a master; While mostly those who praise and those who blame Know nothing of the matter, so that mainly Their 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 stand In presence of this picture, I concede That painting has attained its uttermost; But in the presence of my sculptured figures I feel that my conception soars beyond All 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 more How 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 knew But half as much of drawing as of color, They would indeed work miracles in art, And the world see what it hath never seen.

VI

PALAZZO CESARINI

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 awake In the broad sunshine of the other life. I am a shadow, merely, and these hands, These cheeks, these eyes, these tresses that my husband Once thought so beautiful, and I was proud of Because 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 more Have passed since then; and many things have happened In those ten years, and many friends have died: Marco Flaminio, whom we all admired And 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 prudent But 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's Triumph of Death. The book lies on the table; Beside the casket there. Read where you find The 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 light
Whose nutriment by slow gradation goes,
Keeping until the end its lustre bright.
Not pale, but whiter than the sheet of snows
That 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 face Shines 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 THIRD

I

MONOLOGUE

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.

II

VIGNA DI PAPA GIULIO

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 charge The 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 work Is not completed. Michael Angelo Is 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 graciously Your Holiness commiserates old age And its infirmities!

JULIUS. Say its privileges. Art I respect. The building of this palace And laying out these pleasant garden walks Are my delight, and if I have not asked Your aid in this, it is that I forbear To lay new burdens on you at an age When you need rest. Here I escape from Rome To be at peace. The tumult of the city Scarce 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 advise Your Holiness not to cross it, or not often It 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 Salviati And 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 longer The golden age of art. Men have become Iconoclasts and critics. They delight not In what an artist does, but set themselves To censure what they do not comprehend. You will not see them bearing a Madonna Of Cimabue to the church in triumph, But tearing down the statue of a Pope To cast it into cannon. Who are they That bring complaints against me?

JULIUS. Deputies Of the commissioners; and they complain Of 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 regret You have departed from Bramante's plan, And from San Gallo's.

MICHAEL ANGELO. Since the ancient time No greater architect has lived on earth Than Lazzari Bramante. His design, Without confusion, simple, clear, well-lighted. Merits all praise, and to depart from it Would be departing from the truth. San Gallo, Building about with columns, took all light Out of this plan; left in the choir dark corners For infinite ribaldries, and lurking places For rogues and robbers; so that when the church Was shut at night, not five and twenty men Could 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 vaulting Above 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 rudely In presence of his Holiness, and to us Who are his cardinals.

MICHAEL ANGELO, putting on his hat. I do not forget I 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 Church The labor of these hands, and what of life Remains to me. My father Buonarotti Was Podesta of Chiusi and Caprese. I am not used to have men speak to me As if I were a mason, hired to build A garden wall, and paid on Saturdays So much an hour.

CARDINAL SALVIATI, aside. No wonder that Pope Clement Never sat down in presence of this man, Lest he should do the same; and always bade him Put 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 Holiness Remember what the Holy Scriptures say Of the inevitable time, when those Who look out of the windows shall be darkened, And the almond-tree shall flourish?

JULIUS. That is in Ecclesiastes.

MICHAEL ANGELO. And the grasshopper Shall be a burden, and desire shall fail, Because man goeth unto his long home. Vanity of vanities, saith the Preacher; all Is vanity.

JULIUS. Ah, were to do a thing As easy as to dream of doing it, We should not want for artists. But the men Who carry out in act their great designs Are few in number; ay, they may be counted Upon the fingers of this hand. Your place Is 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 Bigio To mangle and deface.

MICHAEL ANGELO. Rather than that I will still bear the burden on my shoulders A little longer. If your Holiness Will keep the world in order, and will leave The building of the church to me, the work Will 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 gainer Both for your soul and body.

MICHAEL ANGELO. Not events Exasperate me, but the funest conclusions I draw from these events; the sure decline Of art, and all the meaning of that word: All that embellishes and sweetens life, And lifts it from the level of low cares Into the purer atmosphere of beauty; The faith in the Ideal; the inspiration That made the canons of the church of Seville Say, "Let us build, so that all men hereafter Will 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.

III

BINDO ALTOVITI

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 reason That 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 Valori Were 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 house Is filled with works of art. That bust in bronze Is of yourself. Tell me, who is the master That 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.

IV

IN THE COLISEUM

MICHAEL ANGELO and TOMASO DE CAVALIERI

CAVALIERI. What have you here alone, Messer Michele?

MICHAEL ANGELO. I come to learn.

CAVALIERI. You are already master, And teach all other men.

MICHAEL ANGELO. Nay, I know nothing; Not even my own ignorance, as some Philosopher hath said. I am a schoolboy Who hath not learned his lesson, and who stands Ashamed and silent in the awful presence Of the great master of antiquity Who built these walls cyclopean.

CAVALIERI. Gaudentius His name was, I remember. His reward Was to be thrown alive to the wild beasts Here where we now are standing.

MICHAEL ANGELO.
Idle tales.

CAVALIERI. But you are greater than Gaudentius was, And your work nobler.

MICHAEL ANGELO.
Silence, I beseech you.

CAVALIERI. Tradition says that fifteen thousand men Were toiling for ten years incessantly Upon this amphitheatre.

MICHAEL ANGELO. Behold How wonderful it is! The queen of flowers, The marble rose of Rome! Its petals torn By wind and rain of thrice five hundred years; Its mossy sheath half rent away, and sold To ornament our palaces and churches, Or to be trodden under feet of man Upon the Tiber's bank; yet what remains Still opening its fair bosom to the sun, And to the constellations that at night Hang poised above it like a swarm of bees.