To me, the artisan, to whom all women 65
Have been as if they were not, or at most
A sudden rush of pigeons in the air,
A flutter of wings, a sound, and then a silence?
I am too old for love; I am too old
To flatter and delude myself with visions 70
Of never-ending friendship with fair women,
Imaginations, fantasies, illusions,
In which the things that cannot be take shape,
And seem to be, and for the moment are.
Convent bells ring.
Distant and near and low and loud the bells, 75
Dominican, Benedictine, and Franciscan,
Jangle and wrangle in their airy towers,
Discordant as the brotherhoods themselves
In their dim cloisters. The descending sun
Seems to caress the city that he loves, 80
And crowns it with the aureole of a saint.
I will go forth and breathe the air awhile.
II.
San Silvestro
A Chapel in the Church of San Silvestro on Monte Cavallo.
VITTORIA COLONNA, CLAUDIO TOLOMMEI, and others.
VITTORIA.
HERE let us rest awhile, until the crowd
Has left the church. I have already sent
For Michael Angelo to join us here.
MESSER CLAUDIO.
After Fra Bernardino’s wise discourse
On the Pauline Epistles, certainly 5
Some words of Michael Angelo on Art
Were not amiss, to bring us back to earth.
MICHAEL ANGELO, at the door.
How like a Saint or Goddess she appears!
Diana or Madonna, which I know not,
In attitude and aspect formed to be 10
At once the artist’s worship and despair!
VITTORIA.
Welcome, Maestro. We were waiting for you.
MICHAEL ANGELO.
I met your messenger upon the way,
And hastened hither.
VITTORIA.
It is kind of you
To come to us, who linger here like gossips 15
Wasting the afternoon in idle talk.
These are all friends of mine and friends of yours.
MICHAEL ANGELO.
If friends of yours, then are they friends of mine.
Pardon me, gentlemen. But when I entered
I saw but the Marchesa.
VITTORIA.
Take this seat 20
Between me and Ser Claudio Tolommei,
Who still maintains that our Italian tongue
Should be called Tuscan. But for that offence
We will not quarrel with him.
MICHAEL ANGELO.
Eccellenza —
VITTORIA.
Ser Claudio has banished Eccellenza 25
And all such titles from the Tuscan tongue.
MESSER CLAUDIO.
‘T is the abuse of them, and not the use,
I deprecate.
MICHAEL ANGELO.
The use or the abuse,
It matters not. Let them all go together,
As empty phrases and frivolities, 30
And common as gold-lace upon the collar
Of an obsequious lackey.
VITTORIA.
That may be,
But something of politeness would go with them;
We should lose something of the stately manners
Of the old school.
MESSER CLAUDIO.
Undoubtedly.
VITTORIA.
But that 35
Is not what occupies my thoughts at present,
Nor why I sent for you, Messer Michele.
It was to counsel me. His Holiness
Has granted me permission, long desired,
To build a convent in this neighborhood, 40
Where the old tower is standing, from whose top
Nero looked down upon the burning city.
MICHAEL ANGELO.
It is an inspiration!
VITTORIA.
I am doubtful
How I shall build; how large to make the convent,
And which way fronting.
MICHAEL ANGELO.
Ah, to build, to build! 45
That is the noblest art of all the arts.
Painting and sculpture are but images,
Are merely shadows cast by outward things
On stone or canvas, having in themselves
No separate existence. Architecture, 50
Existing in itself, and not in seeming
A something it is not, surpasses them
As substance shadow. Long, long year ago,
Standing one morning near the Baths of Titus,
I saw the statue of Laocoön 55
Rise from its grave of centuries, like a ghost
Writhing in pain; and as it tore away
The knotted serpents from its limbs, I heard,
Or seemed to hear, the cry of agony
From its white, parted lips. And still I marvel 60
At the three Rhodian artists, by whose hands
This miracle was wrought. Yet he beholds
Far nobler works who looks upon the ruins
Of temples in the Forum here in Rome.
If God should give me power in my old age 65
To build for Him a temple half as grand
As those were in their glory, I should count
My age more excellent than youth itself,
And all that I have hitherto accomplished
As only vanity.
VITTORIA.
I understand you. 70
Art is the gift of God, and must be used
Unto His glory. That in art is highest
Which aims at this. When St. Hilarion blessed
The horses of Italicus, they won
The race at Gaza, for his benediction 75
O’erpowered all magic; and the people shouted
That Christ had conquered Marnas. So that art
Which bears the consecration and the seal
Of holiness upon it will prevail
Over all others. Those few words of yours 80
Inspire me with new confidence to build.
What think you? The old walls might serve, perhaps,
Some purpose still. The tower can hold the bells.
MICHAEL ANGELO.
If strong enough.
VITTORIA.
If not, it can be strengthened.
MICHAEL ANGELO.
I see no bar nor drawback to this building, 85
And on our homeward way, if it shall please you,
We may together view the site.
VITTORIA.
I thank you.
I did not venture to request so much.
MICHAEL ANGELO.
Let us now go to the old walls you spake of,
Vossignoria —
VITTORIA.
What, again, Maestro? 90
MICHAEL ANGELO.
Pardon me, Messer Claudio, if once more
I use the ancient courtesies of speech.
I am too old to change.
III.
Cardinal Ippolito
SCENE I. — A richly furnished apartment in the Palace of CARDINAL IPPOLITO. Night.
JACOPO NARDI, an old man, alone.
NARDI.
I AM bewildered. These Numidian slaves,
In strange attire; these endless antechambers;
This lighted hall, with all its golden splendors,
Pictures, and statues! Can this be the dwelling
Of a disciple of that lowly Man 5
Who had not where to lay his head? These statues
Are not of Saints; nor is this a Madonna,
This lovely face, that with such tender eyes
Looks down upon me from the painted canvas.
My heart begins to fail me. What can he 10
Who lives in boundless luxu
ry at Rome
Care for the imperilled liberties of Florence,
Her people, her Republic? Ah, the rich
Feel not the pangs of banishment. All doors
Are open to them, and all hands extended. 15
The poor alone are outcasts; they who risked
All they possessed for liberty, and lost;
And wander through the world without a friend,
Sick, comfortless, distressed, unknown, uncared for.
SCENE II. — JACOPO NARDI; CARDINAL IPPOLITO, in Spanish cloak and slouched hat.
IPPOLITO.
I pray you pardon me if I have kept you 20
Waiting so long alone.
NARDI.
I wait to see
The Cardinal.
IPPOLITO.
I am the Cardinal;
And you?
NARDI.
Jacopo Nardi.
IPPOLITO.
You are welcome.
I was expecting you. Philippo Strozzi
Had told me of your coming.
NARDI.
‘T was his son 25
That brought me to your door.
IPPOLITO.
Pray you, be seated.
You seem astonished at the garb I wear,
But at my time of life, and with my habits,
The petticoats of a Cardinal would be —
Troublesome; I could neither ride nor walk, 30
Nor do a thousand things, if I were dressed
Like an old dowager. It were putting wine
Young as the young Astyanax into goblets
As old as Priam.
NARDI.
Oh, your Eminence
Knows best what you should wear.
IPPOLITO.
Dear Messer Nardi, 35
You are no stranger to me. I have read
Your excellent translation of the books
Of Titus Livius, the historian
Of Rome, and model of all historians
That shall come after him. It does you honor; 40
But greater honor still the love you bear
To Florence, our dear country, and whose annals
I hope your hand will write, in happier days
Than we now see.
NARDI.
Your Eminence will pardon
The lateness of the hour.
IPPOLITO.
The hours I count not 45
As a sun-dial; but am like a clock,
That tells the time as well by night as day.
So, no excuse. I know what brings you here.
You come to speak of Florence.
NARDI.
And her woes.
IPPOLITO.
The duke, my cousin, the black Alessandro, 50
Whose mother was a Moorish slave, that fed
The sheep upon Lorenzo’s farm, still lives
And reigns.
NARDI.
Alas, that such a scourge
Should fall on such a city!
IPPOLITO.
When he dies,
The Wild Boar in the gardens of Lorenzo, 55
The beast obscene, should be the monument
Of this bad man.
NARDI.
He walks the streets at night
With revellers, insulting honest men.
No house is sacred from his lusts. The convents
Are turned by him to brothels, and the honor 60
Of woman and all ancient pious customs
Are quite forgotten now. The offices
Of the Priori and Gonfalonieri
Have been abolished. All the magistrates
Are now his creatures. Liberty is dead. 65
The very memory of all honest living
Is wiped away, and even our Tuscan tongue
Corrupted to a Lombard dialect.
IPPOLITO.
And, worst of all, his impious hand has broken
The Martinella, — our great battle bell, 70
That, sounding through three centuries, has led
The Florentines to victory, — lest its voice
Should waken in their soul some memory
Of far-off times of glory.
NARDI.
What a change
Ten little years have made! We all remember 75
Those better days, when Niccolà Capponi,
The Gonfaloniere, from the windows
Of the Old Palace, with the blast of trumpets,
Proclaimed to the inhabitants that Christ
Was chosen King of Florence; and already 80
Christ is dethroned, and slain; and in his stead
Reigns Lucifer! Alas, alas, for Florence!
IPPOLITO.
Lilies with lilies, said Savonarola;
Florence and France! But I say Florence only,
Or only with the Emperor’s hand to help us 85
In sweeping out the rubbish.
NARDI.
Little hope
Of help is there from him. He has betrothed
His daughter Margaret to this shameless Duke.
What hope have we from such an Emperor?
IPPOLITO.
Baccio Valori and Philippo Strozzi, 90
Once the Duke’s friends and intimates, are with us,
And Cardinals Salvati and Ridolfi.
We shall soon see, then, as Valori says,
Whether the Duke can best spare honest men,
Or honest men the Duke.
NARDI.
We have determined 95
To send ambassadors to Spain, and lay
Our griefs before the Emperor, though I fear
More than I hope.
IPPOLITO.
The Emperor is busy
With this new war against the Algerines,
And has no time to listen to complaints 100
From our ambassadors; nor will I trust them,
But go myself. All is in readiness
For my departure, and to-morrow morning
I shall go down to Itri, where I meet
Dante da Castiglione and some others, 105
Republicans and fugitives from Florence,
And then take ship at Gaëta, and go
To join the Emperor in his new crusade
Against the Turk. I shall have time enough
And opportunity to plead our cause. 110
NARDI, rising.
It is an inspiration, and I hail it
As of good omen. May the power that sends it
Bless our beloved country, and restore
Its banished citizens. The soul of Florence
Is now outside its gates. What lies within 115
Is but a corpse, corrupted and corrupting.
Heaven help us all. I will not tarry longer,
For you have need of rest. Good-night.
IPPOLITO.
Good-night!
SCENE III. — CARDINAL IPPOLITO; FRA SEBASTIANO; Turkish attendants.
IPPOLITO.
Fra Bastiano, how your portly presence
Contrasts with that of the spare Florentine 120
Who has just left me!
FRA SEBASTIANO.
As we passed each other,
I saw that he was weeping.
IPPOLITO.
Poor old man!
FRA SEBASTIANO.
Who is he?
IPPOLITO.
Jacopo Nardi. A brave soul;
One of the Fuorusciti, and the best
And noblest of them all; but he has made me 125
Sad with his sadness. As I look on you
My heart grows lighter. I behold a man
Who lives in an ideal world, apart
From all the rude collisions of our life,
In a calm atmosphere.
FRA SEBASTIANO.
Your Eminence 130
Is surely jesting. If you knew the life
Of artists as I know it, you might think
Far otherwise.
&
nbsp; IPPOLITO.
But wherefore should I jest?
The world of art is an ideal world, —
The world I love, and that I fain would live in; 135
So speak to me of artists and of art,
Of all the painters, sculptors, and musicians
That now illustrate Rome.
FRA SEBASTIANO.
Of the musicians,
I know but Goudimel, the brave maestro
And chapel-master of his Holiness, 140
Who trains the Papal choir.
IPPOLITO.
In church, this morning,
I listened to a mass of Goudimel,
Divinely chanted. In the Incarnatus,
In lieu of Latin words, the tenor sang
With infinite tenderness, in plain Italian, 145
A Neapolitan love-song.
FRA SEBASTIANO.
You amaze me.
Was it a wanton song?
IPPOLITO.
Not a divine one.
I am not over-scrupulous, as you know,
In word or deed, yet such a song as that,
Sung by the tenor of the Papal choir, 150
And in a Papal mass, seemed out of place;
There ‘s something wrong in it.
FRA SEBASTIANO.
There ‘s something wrong
In everything. We cannot make the world
Go right. ‘T is not my business to reform
The Papal choir.
IPPOLITO.
Nor mine, thank Heaven! 155
Then tell me of the artists.
FRA SEBASTIANO.
Naming one
I name them all; for there is only one:
His name is Messer Michael Angelo.
All art and artists of the present day
Centre in him.
IPPOLITO.
You count yourself as nothing? 160
FRA SEBASTIANO.
Or less than nothing, since I am at best
Only a portrait-painter; one who draws
Delphi Complete Works of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (Delphi Poets Series Book 13) Page 125
