Do so subordinate belief to art
That I have made the very violation
Of modesty in martyrs and in virgins 215
A spectacle at which all men would gaze
With half-averted eyes even in a brothel.
BENVENUTO.
He is at home there, and he ought to know
What men avert their eyes from in such places;
From the Last Judgment chiefly, I imagine. 220
MICHAEL ANGELO.
But divine Providence will never leave
The boldness of my marvellous work unpunished;
And the more marvellous it is, the more
‘T is sure to prove the ruin of my fame!
And finally, if in this composition 225
I had pursued the instructions that he gave me
Concerning heaven and hell and paradise,
In that same letter, known to all the world,
Nature would not be forced, as she is now,
To feel ashamed that she invested me 230
With such great talent; that I stand myself
A very idol in the world of art.
He taunts me also with the Mausoleum
Of Julius, still unfinished, for the reason
That men persuaded the inane old man 235
It was of evil augury to build
His tomb while he was living; and he speaks
Of heaps of gold this Pope bequeathed to me,
And calls it robbery; — that is what he says.
What prompted such a letter?
BENVENUTO.
Vanity. 240
He is a clever writer, and he likes
To draw his pen, and flourish it in the face
Of every honest man, as swordsmen do
Their rapiers on occasion, but to show
How skilfully they do it. Had you followed 245
The advice he gave, or even thanked him for it,
You would have seen another style of fence.
‘T is but his wounded vanity, and the wish
To see his name in print. So give it not
A moment’s thought; it will soon be forgotten. 250
MICHAEL ANGELO.
I will not think of it, but let it pass
For a rude speech thrown at me in the street,
As boys threw stones at Dante.
BENVENUTO.
And what answer
Shall I take back to Grand Duke Cosimo?
He does not ask your labor or your service; 255
Only your presence in the city of Florence,
With such advice upon his work in hand
As he may ask, and you may choose to give.
MICHAEL ANGELO.
You have my answer. Nothing he can offer.
Shall tempt me to leave Rome. My work is here, 260
And only here, the building of St. Peter’s.
What other things I hitherto have done
Have fallen from me, are no longer mine;
I have passed on beyond them, and have left them
As milestones on the way. What lies before me, 265
That is still mine, and while it is unfinished
No one shall draw me from it, or persuade me,
By promises of ease, or wealth, or honor,
Till I behold the finished dome uprise
Complete, as now I see it in my thought. 270
BENVENUTO.
And will you paint no more?
MICHAEL ANGELO.
No more.
BENVENUTO.
‘T is well.
Sculpture is more divine, and more like Nature,
That fashions all her works in high relief,
And that is sculpture. This vast ball, the Earth,
Was moulded out of clay, and baked in fire; 275
Men, women, and all animals that breathe
Are statues and not paintings. Even the plants,
The flowers, the fruits, the grasses, were first sculptured,
And colored later. Painting is a lie,
A shadow merely.
MICHAEL ANGELO.
Truly, as you say, 280
Sculpture is more than painting. It is greater
To raise the dead to life than to create
Phantoms that seem to live. The most majestic
Of the three sister arts is that which builds;
The eldest of them all, to whom the others 285
Are but the handmaids and the servitors,
Being but imitation, not creation.
Henceforth I dedicate myself to her.
BENVENUTO.
And no more from the marble hew those forms
That fill us all with wonder?
MICHAEL ANGELO.
Many statues 290
Will there be room for in my work. Their station
Already is assigned them in my mind.
But things move slowly. There are hindrances,
Want of material, want of means, delays
And interruptions, endless interference 295
Of Cardinal Commissioners, and disputes
And jealousies of artists, that annoy me.
But I will persevere until the work
Is wholly finished, or till I sink down
Surprised by Death, that unexpected guest, 300
Who waits for no man’s leisure, but steps in,
Unasked and unannounced, to put a stop
To all our occupations and designs.
And then perhaps I may go back to Florence;
This is my answer to Duke Cosimo. 305
VI.
Michael Angelo’s Studio
MICHAEL ANGELO and URBINO.
MICHAEL ANGELO, pausing in his work.
URBINO, thou and I are both old men.
My strength begins to fail me.
URBINO.
Eccellenza,
That is impossible. Do I not see you
Attack the marble blocks with the same fury
As twenty years ago?
MICHAEL ANGELO.
‘T is an old habit. 5
I must have learned it early from my nurse
At Setignano, the stone-mason’s wife;
For the first sounds I heard were of the chisel
Chipping away the stone.
URBINO.
At every stroke
You strike fire with your chisel.
MICHAEL ANGELO.
Aye, because 10
The marble is too hard.
URBINO.
It is a block
That Topolino sent you from Carrara.
He is a judge of marble.
MICHAEL ANGELO.
I remember.
With it he sent me something of his making, —
A Mercury, with long body and short legs, 15
As if by any possibility
A messenger of the gods could have short legs.
It was no more like Mercury than you are,
But rather like those little plaster figures
That peddlers hawk about the villages 20
As images of saints. But luckily
For Topolino, there are many people
Who see no difference between what is best
And what is only good, or not even good;
So that poor artists stand in their esteem 25
On the same level with the best, or higher.
URBINO.
How Eccellenza laughed!
MICHAEL ANGELO.
Poor Topolino!
All men are not born artists, nor will labor
E’er make them artists.
URBINO.
No, no more
Than Emperors, or Popes, or Cardinals. 30
One must be chosen for it. I have been
Your color-grinder six and twenty years,
And am not yet an artist.
MICHAEL ANGELO.
Some have eyes
That see not; but in every block of marble
I see a statue, — see it as distinctly 35
As if it stood before me shaped and perfect
In attitude and action. I have only
To hew away the stone walls that imprison
The lovely apparition, and reveal it
To other eyes as mine already see it. 40
But I grow old and weak. What wilt thou do
When I am dead, Urbino?
URBINO.
Eccellenza,
I must then serve another master.
MICHAEL ANGELO.
Never!
Bitter is servitude at best. Already
So many years hast thou been serving me; 45
But rather as a friend than as a servant.
We have grown old together. Dost thou think
So meanly of this Michael Angelo
As to imagine he would let thee serve,
When he is free from service? Take this purse, 50
Two thousand crowns in gold.
URBINO.
Two thousand crowns!
MICHAEL ANGELO.
Ay, it will make thee rich. Thou shalt not die
A beggar in a hospital.
URBINO.
Oh, Master!
MICHAEL ANGELO.
I cannot have them with me on the journey
That I am undertaking. The last garment 55
That men will make for me will have no pockets.
URBINO, kissing the hand of MICHAEL ANGELO.
My generous master!
MICHAEL ANGELO.
Hush!
URBINO.
My Providence!
MICHAEL ANGELO.
Not a word more. Go now to bed, old man.
Thou hast served Michael Angelo. Remember,
Henceforward thou shalt serve no other master. 60
VII.
The Oaks of Monte Luca
MICHAEL ANGELO, alone in the woods.
MICHAEL ANGELO.
HOW still it is among these ancient oaks!
Surges and undulations of the air
Uplift the leafy boughs, and let them fall
With scarce a sound. Such sylvan quietudes
Become old age. These huge centennial oaks, 5
That may have heard in infancy the trumpets
Of Barbarossa’s cavalry, deride
Man’s brief existence, that with all his strength
He cannot stretch beyond the hundredth year.
This little acorn, turbaned like the Turk, 10
Which with my foot I spurn, may be an oak
Hereafter, feeding with its bitter mast
The fierce wild-boar, and tossing in its arms
The cradled nests of birds, when all the men
That now inhabit this vast universe, 15
They and their children, and their children’s children,
Shall be but dust and mould, and nothing more.
Through openings in the trees I see below me
The valley of Clitumnus, with its farms
And snow-white oxen grazing in the shade 20
Of the tall poplars on the river’s brink.
O Nature, gentle mother, tender nurse!
I, who have never loved thee as I ought,
But wasted all my years immured in cities,
And breathed the stifling atmosphere of streets, 25
Now come to thee for refuge. Here is peace.
Yonder I see the little hermitages
Dotting the mountain side with points of light,
And here St. Julian’s convent, like a nest
Of curlews, clinging to some windy cliff. 30
Beyond the broad, illimitable plain
Down sinks the sun, red as Apollo’s quoit,
That, by the envious Zephyr blown aside,
Struck Hyacinthus dead, and stained the earth
With his young blood, that blossomed into flowers. 35
And now, instead of these fair deities,
Dread demons haunt the earth; hermits inhabit
The leafy homes of sylvan Hamadryads;
And jovial friars, rotund and rubicund,
Replace the old Silenus with his ass. 40
Here underneath these venerable oaks,
Wrinkled and brown and gnarled like them with age,
A brother of the monastery sits,
Lost in his meditations. What may be
The questions that perplex, the hopes that cheer him? — 45
Good-evening, holy father.
MONK.
God be with you.
MICHAEL ANGELO.
Pardon a stranger if he interrupt
Your meditations.
MONK.
It was but a dream. —
The old, old dream, that never will come true;
The dream that all my life I have been dreaming, 50
And yet is still a dream.
MICHAEL ANGELO.
All men have dreams,
I have had mine; but none of them came true;
They were but vanity. Sometimes I think
The happiness of man lies in pursuing,
Not in possessing; for the things possessed 55
Lose half their value. Tell me of your dream.
MONK.
The yearning of my heart, my sole desire,
That like the sheaf of Joseph stands upright,
While all the others bend and bow to it;
The passion that torments me, and that breathes 60
New meaning into the dead forms of prayer,
Is that with mortal eyes I may behold
The Eternal City.
MICHAEL ANGELO.
Rome?
MONK.
There is but one;
The rest merely names. I think of it
As the Celestial City, paved with gold, 65
And sentinelled with angels.
MICHAEL ANGELO.
Would it were.
I have just fled from it. It is beleaguered
By Spanish troops, led by the Duke of Alva.
MONK.
But still for me ‘t is the Celestial City,
And I would see it once before I die. 70
MICHAEL ANGELO.
Each one must bear his cross.
MONK.
Were it a cross
That had been laid upon me, I could bear it,
Or fall with it. It is a crucifix;
I am nailed hand and foot, and I am dying!
MICHAEL ANGELO.
What would you see in Rome?
MONK.
His Holiness. 75
MICHAEL ANGELO.
Him that was once the Cardinal Caraffa?
You would but see a man of fourscore years,
With sunken eyes, burning like carbuncles,
Who sits at table with his friends for hours,
Cursing the Spaniards as a race of Jews 80
And miscreant Moors. And with what soldiery
Think you he now defends the Eternal City?
MONK.
With legions of bright angels.
MICHAEL ANGELO.
So he calls them;
And yet in fact these bright angelic legions
Are only German Lutherans.
MONK, crossing himself.
Heaven protect us! 85
MICHAEL ANGELO.
What further would you see?
MONK.
The Cardinals,
Going in their gilt coaches to High Mass.
MICHAEL ANGELO.
Men do not go to Paradise in coaches.
MONK.
The catacombs, the convents, and the churches;
The ceremonies of the Holy Week 90
In all their pomp, or, at the Epiphany,
The feast of the Santissimo Bambino
At Ara Cœli. But I shall not see them.
MICHAEL ANGELO.
These pompous ceremonies of the Church
Are but an empty show to him who knows 95
The actors in them. Stay here in your convent,
For he who goes to Rome may see too much.
What would you further?
MONK.
I would see the painting
Of the Last Judgment in the Sistine Chapel.
MICHAEL ANGELO.
The smoke of incense and of altar candles 100
Has blackened it already.
MONK.
Woe is me!
Then I would hear Allegri’s Miserere,
Sung by the Papal choir.
MICHAEL ANGELO.
A dismal dirge!
I am an old, old man, and I have lived
In Rome for thirty years and more, and know 105
The jarring of the wheels of that great world,
Its jealousies, its discords, and its strife.
Therefore I say to you, remain content
Here in your convent, here among your woods,
Where only there is peace. Go not to Rome. 110
There was of old a monk of Wittenberg
Who went to Rome; you may have heard of him;
His name was Luther; and you know what followed.
[The convent bell rings.
MONK, rising.
It is the convent bell; it rings for vespers.
Let us go in; we both will pray for peace. 115
VIII.
The Dead Christ
MICHAEL ANGELO’S Studio. MICHAEL ANGELO with a light, working upon the Dead Christ. Midnight.
MICHAEL ANGELO.
O DEATH, why is it I cannot portray
Thy form and features? Do I stand too near thee?
Or dost thou hold my hand, and draw me back,
As being thy disciple, not thy master?
Let him who knows not what old age is like 5
Have patience till it comes, and he will know.
I once had skill to fashion Life and Death
And Sleep, which is the counterfeit of Death;
And I remember what Giovanni Strozzi
Wrote underneath my statue of the Night 10
Delphi Complete Works of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (Delphi Poets Series Book 13) Page 133
