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, 25
And to the constellations that at night
Hang poised above it like a swarm of bees.
CAVALIERI.
The rose of Rome, but not of Paradise;
Not the white rose our Tuscan poet saw,
With saints for petals. When this rose was perfect 30
Its hundred thousand petals were not saints,
But senators in their Thessalian caps,
And all the roaring populace of Rome;
And even an Empress and the Vestal Virgins,
Who came to see the gladiators die, 35
Could not give sweetness to a rose like this.
MICHAEL ANGELO.
I spake not of its uses, but its beauty.
CAVALIERI.
The sand beneath our feet is saturate
With blood of martyrs; and these rifted stones
Are awful witnesses against a people 40
Whose pleasure was the pain of dying men
MICHAEL ANGELO.
Tomaso Cavalieri, on my word,
You should have been a preacher, not a painter!
Think you that I approve such cruelties,
Because I marvel at the architects 45
Who built these walls, and curved these noble arches?
Oh, I am put to shame, when I consider
How mean our work is, when compared with theirs!
Look at these walls about us and above us!
They have been shaken by earthquakes, have been made 50
A fortress, and been battered by long sieges;
The iron clamps, that held the stones together,
Have been wrenched from them; but they stand erect
And firm, as if they had been hewn and hollowed
Out of the solid rock, and were a part 55
Of the foundations of the world itself.
CAVALIERI.
Your work, I say again, is nobler work,
In so far as its end and aim are nobler;
And this is but a ruin, like the rest.
Its vaulted passages are made the caverns 60
Of robbers, and are haunted by the ghosts
Of murdered men.
MICHAEL ANGELO.
A thousand wild flowers bloom
From every chink, and the birds build their nests
Among the ruined arches, and suggest
New thoughts of beauty to the architect. 65
Now let us climb the broken stairs that lead
Into the corridors above, and study
The marvel and the mystery of that art
In which I am a pupil, not a master.
All things must have an end; the world itself 70
Must have an end, as in a dream I saw it.
There came a great hand out of heaven, and touched
The earth, and stopped it in its course. The seas
Leaped, a vast cataract, into the abyss;
The forests and the fields slid off, and floated 75
Like wooded islands in the air. The dead
Were hurled forth from their sepulchres; the living
Were mingled with them, and themselves were dead, —
All being dead; and the fair, shining cities
Dropped out like jewels from a broken crown. 80
Naught but the core of the great globe remained,
A skeleton of stone. And over it
The wrack of matter drifted like a cloud,
And then recoiled upon itself, and fell
Back on the empty world, that with the weight 85
Reeled, staggered, righted, and then head-long plunged
Into the darkness, as a ship, when struck
By a great sea, throws off the waves at first
On either side, then settles and goes down
Into the dark abyss, with her dead crew. 90
CAVALIERI.
But the earth does not move.
MICHAEL ANGELO.
Who knows? who knows?
There are great truths that pitch their shining tents
Outside our walls, and though but dimly seen
In the gray dawn, they will be manifest
When the light widens into perfect day. 95
A certain man, Copernicus by name,
Sometime professor here in Rome, has whispered
It is the earth, and not the sun, that moves.
What I beheld was only in a dream,
Yet dreams sometimes anticipate events, 100
Being unsubstantial images of things
As yet unseen.
V.
Macello de’ Corvi
MICHAEL ANGELO, BENVENUTO CELINI.
MICHAEL ANGELO.
SO, Benvenuto, you return once more
To the Eternal City. ‘T is the centre
To which all gravitates. One finds no rest
Elsewhere than here. There may be other cities
That please us for a while, but Rome alone 5
Completely satisfies. It becomes to all
A second native land by predilection,
And not by accident of birth alone.
BENVENUTO.
I am but just arrived, and am now lodging
With Bindo Altoviti. I have been 10
To kiss the feet of our most Holy Father,
And now am come in haste to kiss the hands
Of my miraculous Master.
MICHAEL ANGELO.
And to find him
Grown very old.
BENVENUTO.
You know that precious stones
Never grow old.
MICHAEL ANGELO.
Half sunk beneath the horizon, 15
And yet not gone. Twelve years are a long while.
Tell me of France.
BENVENUTO.
It were too long a tale
To tell you all. Suffice in brief to say
The King received me well, and loved me well;
Gave me the annual pension that before me 20
Our Leonardo had, nor more nor less,
And for my residence the Tour de Nesle,
Upon the river-side.
MICHAEL ANGELO.
A princely lodging.
BENVENUTO.
What in return I did now matters not,
For there are other things, of greater moment, 25
I wish to speak of. First of all, the letter
You wrote me, not long since, about my bust
Of Bindo Altoviti, here in Rome. You said,
“My Benvenuto, I for many years
Have known you as the greatest of all goldsmiths, 30
And now I know you as no less a sculptor.”
Ah, generous Master! How shall I e’er thank you
For such kind language?
MICHAEL ANGELO.
By believing it.
I saw the bust at Messer Bindo’s house,
And thought it worthy of the ancient masters, 35
And said so. That is all.
BENVENUTO.
It is too much;
And I should stand abashed here in your presence,
Had I done nothing worthier of your praise
Than Bindo’s bust.
MICHAEL ANGELO.
What have you done that ‘s better?
BENVENUTO.
When I left Rome for Paris, you remember 40
I promised you that if I went a goldsmith
I would return a sculptor. I have kept
The promise I then made.
MICHAEL ANGELO.
Dear Benvenuto,
I recognized the latent genius in you,
But feared your vices.
BENVENUTO.
I have turned them all 45
To virtues. My impatient, wayward nature,
That made me quick in quarrel, n
ow has served me
Where meekness could not, and where patience could not,
As you shall hear now. I have cast in bronze
A statue of Perseus, holding thus aloft 50
In his left hand the head of the Medusa,
And in his right the sword that severed it;
His right foot planted on the lifeless corse;
His face superb and pitiful, with eyes
Down-looking on the victim of his vengeance. 55
MICHAEL ANGELO.
I see it as it should be.
BENVENUTO.
As it will be
When it is placed upon the Ducal Square,
Half-way between your David and the Judith
Of Donatello.
MICHAEL ANGELO.
Rival of them both!
BENVENUTO.
But ah, what infinite trouble have I had 60
With Bandinello, and that stupid beast,
The major-domo of Duke Cosimo,
Francesco Ricci, and their wretched agent
Gorini, who came crawling round about me
Like a black spider, with his whining voice 65
That sounded like the buzz of a mosquito!
Oh, I have wept in utter desperation,
And wished a thousand times I had not left
My Tour de Nesle, nor e’er returned to Florence,
Nor thought of Perseus. What malignant falsehoods 70
They told the Grand Duke, to impede my work,
And make me desperate!
MICHAEL ANGELO.
The nimble lie
Is like the second-hand upon a clock;
We see it fly, while the hour-hand of truth
Seems to stand still, and yet it moves unseen, 75
And wins at last, for the clock will not strike
Till it has reached the goal.
BENVENUTO.
My obstinacy
Stood me in stead, and helped me to o’ercome
The hindrances that envy and ill-will
Put in my way.
MICHAEL ANGELO.
When anything is done 80
People see not the patient doing of it,
Nor think how great would be the loss to man
If it had not been done. As in a building
Stone rests on stone, and wanting the foundation
All would be wanting, so in human life 85
Each action rests on the foregone event,
That made it possible, but is forgotten
And buried in the earth.
BENVENUTO.
Even Bandinello,
Who never yet spake well of anything,
Speaks well of this; and yet he told the Duke 90
That, though I cast small figures well enough,
I never could cast this.
MICHAEL ANGELO.
But you have done it,
And proved Ser Bandinello a false prophet.
That is the wisest way.
BENVENUTO.
And ah, that casting!
What a wild scene it was, as late at night, 95
A night of wind and rain, we heaped the furnace
With pine of Serristori, till the flames
Caught in the rafters over us, and threatened
To send the burning roof upon our heads;
And from the garden side the wind and rain 100
Poured in upon us, and half quenched our fires.
I was beside myself with desperation.
A shudder came upon me, then a fever;
I thought that I was dying, and was forced
To leave the work-shop, and to throw myself 105
Upon my bed, as one who has no hope.
And as I lay there, a deformed old man
Appeared before me, and with dismal voice,
Like one who doth exhort a criminal
Led forth to death, exclaimed, “Poor Benvenuto, 110
Thy work is spoiled! There is no remedy!”
Then with a cry so loud it might have reached
The heaven of fire, I bounded to my feet,
And rushed back to my workmen. They all stood
Bewildered and desponding; and I looked 115
Into the furnace, and beheld the mass
Half molten only, and in my despair
I fed the fire with oak, whose terrible heat
Soon made the sluggish metal shine and sparkle.
Then followed a bright flash, and an explosion, 120
As if a thunderbolt had fallen among us.
The covering of the furnace had been rent
Asunder, and the bronze was flowing over;
So that I straightway opened all the sluices
To fill the mould. The metal ran like lava, 125
Sluggish and heavy; and I sent my workmen
To ransack the whole house, and bring together
My pewter plates and pans, two hundred of them,
And cast them one by one into the furnace
To liquefy the mass, and in a moment 130
The mould was filled! I fell upon my knees
And thanked the Lord; and then we ate and drank
And went to bed, all hearty and contented.
It was two hours before the break of day.
My fever was quite gone.
MICHAEL ANGELO.
A strange adventure, 135
That could have happened to no man alive
But you, my Benvenuto.
BENVENUTO.
As my workmen said
To major-domo Ricci afterward
When he inquired of them: “‘T was not a man,
But an express great devil.”
MICHAEL ANGELO.
And the statue? 140
BENVENUTO.
Perfect in every part, save the right foot
Of Perseus, as I had foretold the Duke.
There was just bronze enough to fill the mould;
Not a drop over, not a drop too little.
I looked upon it as a miracle 145
Wrought by the hand of God.
MICHAEL ANGELO.
And now I see
How you have turned your vices into virtues.
BENVENUTO.
But wherefore do I prate of this? I came
To speak of other things. Duke Cosimo
Through me invites you to return to Florence, 150
And offers you great honors, even to make you
One of the Forty-Eight, his Senators.
MICHAEL ANGELO.
His Senators! That is enough. Since Florence
Was changed by Clement Seventh from a Republic
Into a Dukedom, I no longer wish 155
To be a Florentine. That dream is ended.
The Grand Duke Cosimo now reigns supreme;
All liberty is dead. Ah, woe is me!
I hoped to see my country rise to heights
Of happiness and freedom yet unreached 160
By other nations, but the climbing wave
Pauses, lets go its hold, and slides again
Back to the common level, with a hoarse
Death-rattle in its throat. I am too old
To hope for better days. I will stay here 165
And die in Rome. The very weeds, that grow
Among the broken fragments of her ruins,
Are sweeter to me than the garden flowers
Of other cities; and the desolate ring
Of the Campagna round about her walls 170
Fairer than all the villas that encircle
The towns of Tuscany.
BENVENUTO.
But your old friends!
MICHAEL ANGELO.
All dead by violence. Baccio Valori
Has been beheaded; Guicciardini poisoned;
Philippo Strozzi strangled in his prison. 175
Is Florence then a place for honest men
To flourish in? What is there to prevent
My sharing the same fate?
> BENVENUTO.
Why, this: if all
Your friends are dead, so are your enemies.
MICHAEL ANGELO.
Is Aretino dead?
BENVENUTO.
He lives in Venice, 180
And not in Florence.
MICHAEL ANGELO.
‘T is the same to me.
This wretched mountebank, whom flatterers
Call the Divine, as if to make the word
Unpleasant in the mouths of those who speak it
And in the ears of those who hear it, sends me 185
A letter written for the public eye,
And with such subtle and infernal malice,
I wonder at his wickedness. ‘T is he
Is the express great devil, and not you.
Some years ago he told me how to paint 190
The scenes of the Last Judgment.
BENVENUTO.
I remember.
MICHAEL ANGELO.
Well, now he writes to me that, as a Christian,
He is ashamed of the unbounded freedom
With which I represent it.
BENVENUTO.
Hypocrite!
MICHAEL ANGELO.
He says I show mankind that I am wanting 195
In piety and religion, in proportion
As I profess perfection in my art.
Profess perfection? Why, ‘t is only men
Like Bugiardini who are satisfied
With what they do. I never am content, 200
But always see the labor of my hand
Fall short of my conception.
BENVENUTO.
I perceive
The malice of this creature. He would taint you
With heresy, and in a time like this!
‘T is infamous!
MICHAEL ANGELO.
I represent the angles 205
Without their heavenly glory, and the saints
Without a trace of earthly modesty.
BENVENUTO.
Incredible audacity!
MICHAEL ANGELO.
The heathen
Veiled their Diana with some drapery,
And when they represented Venus naked 210
They made her by her modest attitude
Appear half clothed. But I, who am a Christian,
Delphi Complete Works of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (Delphi Poets Series Book 13) Page 132
