MGKAVED BY G. KRUELL
MICHAEL ANGELO-
r~\ i S L .1 1
MICHAEL ANGELO
Dramatic Itoem
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW
7
Michel, piu che mortal, Angel divino
ARIOSTO
Similamente operando all' artista Ch' a 1'abito, dell' arte e man che trema
DANTE, Par. xiii., st. 77
ILLUSTRATED
BOSTON HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY
New York: 11 East Seventeenth Street
IttocrsiDf press, CambriDgc
1884
n«3.'>vv U'DTTaYtJ ^ W
Copyright, 1882 and 1883, By HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN & CO. AND ERNEST W. LONGFELLOW.
All rights resented.
The Riverside Press, Cambridge. : Electrotyped and Printed by II. 0. Houghton & Co-
CONTENTS.
PAGE
DEDICATION 5
PART FIRST.
I. PKOLOGUE AT ISCHIA 7
II. MONOLOGUE 17
III. SAN SILVESTKO 20
IV. CARDINAL IPPOLITO ,27
V. BORGO DELLE VERGINE AT NAPLES 43
VI. VlTTORIA COLONNA 5(>
PART SECOND.
I. MONOLOGUE 73
II. VITERBO 76
III. MICHAEL ANGELO AND BENVENUTO CELLINI 77
IV. FRA SEBASTIANO DEL PIOMBO 90
V. MICHAEL ANGELO AND TITIAN: PALAZZO BELVEDERE 103
VI. PALAZZO CESARINI 113
PART THIRD.
I. MONOLOGUE : MACELLO DE' CORVI 123
II. VIGNA DI PAPA GIULIO 125
III. BINDO ALTOVITI 137
IV. IN THE COLISEUM 142
V. BENEVENUTO AGAIN : MACELLO DE' CORVI 148
VI. URBINO'S FORTUNE 164
VII. THE OAKS OF MONTE LUCA 168
VIII. THE DEAD CHRIST 174
NOTES ON THE ILLUSTRATIONS .... 181
849332
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.
PORTRAIT OF MICHAEL AXGELO. After a recent French
engraving HALF TITLE .... ....
DEDICATION . .......
HEAD-PIECE PART FIRST ......
PORTRAIT OF JULIA GONZAGA. From the engraving
" Saint Agatha "
VlTTORIA COLONNA AND JULIA GONZAGA. On the Castle
terrace. " / will f/o with you ; for I would not lose
One hour of your dear presence " .... MICHAEL ANGELO IN HIS STUDIO.
" What is it guides my hand, what thoughts possess me, That I have drawn her face among the angels "
VlTTORIA COLONNA, MlCHAEL ANGELO, AND OTHERS. Ill
the Chapel of San Silvestro.
" If friends of yours, then are they friends of mine. Pardon me, gentlemen. But when I entered I saw but the Marchesa " .
CARDINAL IPPOLITO. From a steel engraving of the por trait by Titian ........
DUKE ALESSANDRO. From a medal by Benvenuto Cellini. " The Duke, my cousin, the black Alessandro,
Whose mother ivas a Moorish slave" MICHAEL ANGELO. From Buonasoni's portrait. " All art and artists of the present day
Centre in him "
CARDINAL IPPOLITO AND FRA SEBASTIAN DEL PIOMBO.
" Now unsheathe it.
'Tis a Damascus blade ; you see the inscription In Arabic : La Allah ilia Allah" . JULIA GONZAGA AND VALDESSO.
tv This warrants me in saying You think you can win heaven by compromise, And not by verdict " .
Frontispiece.
S. L. SMITH . . 3
S. L. SMITH ... 5 S. L. SMITH 7
MRS. F. C. HOUSTON . 10
WALTER SHIRLAW , . 13 THOMAS HOVENDEN . . 18
F. D. MILLET 23
28
32
36
T. DE THULSTRUP . . 39
WALTER SHIRLAW . . 51
Vlll
MICHAEL ANGELO.
VESUVIUS.
" The dim, mysterious sea in silence sleeps ; And straight into the air Vesuvius lifts
His plume of smoke "
ISCHIA. The home of Vittoria Colonna ....
HEAD. Considered by many to be a likeness of Vittoria
Colonna. It was drawn in black chalk by Michael An-
Ross TURNER W. H. GIBSON
HALF TITLE. PART SECOND S. L. SMITH
FLORENCE ........ F. B. SCHELL .
" As a youth I walked with Ghirlandajo in the gardens
Of the Medici " V > Louis RITTER .
CELLINI AT THE SIEGE OF ROME.
" And firing at him with due aim and range,
I cut the gay Hidalgo in two 'pieces" . . . T. DE THULSTRUP . FRA SEBASTIAN DEL PIOMBO. From the portrait by Gior gio Vasari .
FRA SEBASTIAN'S PORTRAIT OF VITTORIA COLONNA
" See how hard the outline, Sharp-cut and clear, not rounded into shadow. Yet that is nature " . . . . . . . Ross TURNER .
VENICE.
" Your still lagoons,
Your City of Silence floating in the sea " . . . THEODORE WENDELL ,
TITIAN. After the etching by Angostino Carracci
MICHAEL ANGELO'S VISIT TO TITIAN'S STUDIO. "And now, Maestro, pray unveil your picture
Of Danae, of which I hear such praise" . . . WALTER SHIRLAW GIORGIO VASARI. After an old print .... ROBERT LEWIS . JULIA GONZAGA AND MICHAEL ANGELO AT THE DEATH OF VITTORIA COLONNA.
" Alas ! yes, she is dead !
Even death itself in her fair face seems fair" . . WALTER SHIRLAW HALF TITLE. PART THIRD . . . . . . S. L. SMITH
MICHAEL ANGELO'S SEAL . . . .
VENICE AT NIGHT . . Ross TURNER .
MICHAEL ANGELO AND BINDO ALTOVITI.
" The same reason
TJiat keeps you standing sentinel at your door " . T. DE THULSTRUP MICHAEL ANGELO AND TOMASO DE CAVALIERI IN THE COLISEUM. " Oh, I am put to shame, when I consider
Hoiv mean our work is, ivhen compared with theirs " . F. D. MILLET . BENVENUTO CELLINI. From the portrait by Giorgio Vasari
56
01
67 71 79
82
85
91 96
103 105
107 111
117
124 131
139
145 150
MICHAEL ANGELO. ix
CELLINI CASTING THE STATUE.
" And cast them one by one into the furnace
To liquefy the mass" WALTER SHIRLAW . 155
MICHAEL ANGELO AND HIS AGED SERVANT URBINO.
" Take this purse,
Two thousand crowns in gold" . . . T. DE THULSTRUP , .167
MICHAEL ANGELO AND THE MONK. The Valley of Cli- tuinnus below.
'' Were it a cross
That had been laid upon me, I could bear it,
Or fall with It" .... F.D.MILLET . . .171
MICHAEL ANGELO BEFORE HIS GROUP. "The Dead Christ." " 0 Death, why is it I cannot portray
Thy form and features ? Do 1 stand too near thee'.'" THOMAS HOVENDEN . 175
FlXLS S. L. SMITH 17'.)
THE ENGRAVINGS WERE MADE BY:
GEORGE T. ANDREW, K. C. ATTWOOD, VICTOR BERNSTROM, W. B. CLOSSON, W. .1. DANA, FRANK FRENCH, J. S. HARLEY, T. JOHNSON, F. JUKNGLING, JOHN KARST, H. F. KRAI-SK, G. KRUKLL, HENRY MARSH, WILLIAM MILLER, H. E. SCHULTZ, G. F. SMITH, H. E. SYL VESTER, and HENRY VELTEN.
PUBLISHERS' NOTE.
THE Dramatic Poem of Michael Angelo was written by Mr. Longfellow mainly about ten years before his death, but was kept by him for occasional revision, and printed after his death in THE ATLANTIC MONTHLY from his final copy. It had been his wish that the poem, when published as a book, should be accompanied by illustrations, and the Publishers have accordingly reserved it for this form. In the plan of its illustration they have followed so far as they could the spirit in which the poet composed it, making the designs descriptive of the historical and bio graphical features of the poem, for the most part, and studying to render them accurate in their interpretation of the facts. They have added a few notes for the reader's convenience, since the portraits, which form the chief subject of the notes, could not be referred to except by recourse to a variety of works.
DRAMATIS PERSOIS^E.
MICHAEL ANGELO. CARDINAL MARCELLO.
VlTTORIA COLOKNA. GlOVANNI VALDESSO.
JULIA GONZAGA. GIORGIO VASARI.
FRA SEBASTIANO DEL PIOMBO. BINDO ALTOVITI,
BENVENUTO CELLINI. TOMASO DE' CAVALIERI.
TITIAN. CLAUDIO TOLOMMEI.
POPE JULIUS III. JACOPO NARDI.
CARDINAL IPPOLITO. URBINO.
CARDINAL SALVIATI. A MONK.
MLHAE.ANCiO
MICHAEL
NOTHING that is shall perish utterly. Hut perish only to revive again In other forms, as clouds restore in rain The exhalations of the land and sea.
Men build their houses from the masonry Of ruined tombs ; the passion and the pain Of hearts, that long have ceased to beat, remain To throb in hearts that are, or are to be.
So from old chronicles, where sleep in dust
Names that once filled the world with trumpet tones, I build this verse ; and flowers of song have thrust
Their roots among the loose disjointed stones, Which to this end I fashion as I must. Quickened are they that touch the Prophet's bones.
$SB
a MICHAEL ANCELO
PART FIRST
I.
PROLOGUE AT ISCIITA. The Castle Terrace. VITTOKIA COLONXA, and JULIA GOXZAGA.
VITTORIA.
Will you then leave me, Julia, and so soon, To pace alone this terrace like a ghost ?
JULIA.
To-morrow, dearest.
VITTORIA.
Do not say to-morrow.
A whole month of to-morrows were too soon. You must not go. You are a part of me.
JULIA. I must return to Fondi.
MICHAEL ANGELO.
VITTOEIA.
The old castle
Needs not your presence. No one waits for you. Stay one day longer with me. They who go Feel not the pain of parting ; it is they Who stay behind that suffer. I was thinking But yesterday how like and how unlike Have been, and are, our destinies. Your husband, The good Yespasian, an old man, who seemed A father to you rather than a husband, Died in your arms ; but mine, in all the flower And promise of his youth, was taken from me As by a rushing wind. The breath of battle Breathed on him, and I saw his face no more, Save as in dreams it haunts me. As our love Was for these men, so is our sorrow for them. Yours a child's sorrow, smiling through its tears ; But mine the grief of an impassioned woman, Who drank her life up in one draught of love.
JULIA.
Behold this locket. This is the white hair Of my Yespasian. This the flower-of-love, The amaranth, and beneath it the device, Non moritura. Thus my heart remains True to his memory ; and the ancient castle, Where we have lived together, where he died, Is dear to me as Ischia is to you.
VITTORIA.
I did not mean to chide you.
JULIA.
Let your heart
MICHAEL ANGELO.
Find, if it can, some poor apology
For one who is too young, and feels too keenly
The joy of life, to give up all her days
To sorrow for the dead. While I* am true
To the remembrance of the man I loved
And mourn for still, I do not make a show
Of all the grief I feel, nor live secluded
And, like Veronica da Gambara,
Drape my whole house in mourning, and drive forth
In coach of sable drawn by sable horses,
As if I were a corpse. Ah, one to-day
Is worth for me a thousand yesterdays.
VITTORIA.
Dear Julia ! Friendship has its jealousies
As well as love. Who waits for you at Fondi ?
JULIA.
A friend of mine and yours ; a friend and friar. You have at Naples your Fra Bernardino ; And I at Fondi have my Fra Bastiano, The famous artist, who has come from Rome To paint my. portrait. That is not a sin.
VITTORIA.
Only a vanity.
JULIA.
He painted yours.
VITTORIA.
Do not call up to me those days departed, When I was young, and all was bright about me, And the vicissitudes of life were things But to be read of in old histories,
10 MICHAEL ANGELO.
Though as pertaining unto me or mine Impossible. Ah, then I dreamed your dreams, And now, grown older, I look back and see They were illusions.
JULIA.
Yet without illusions
What would our lives become, what we ourselves ? Dreams or illusions, call them what you will, They lift us from the commonplace of life To better things.
VITTORIA.
Are there no brighter dreams, No higher aspirations, than the wish To please and to be pleased ?
JULIA.
For you there are : I am no saint ; I feel the world we live in
MICHAEL ANGELO. 11
Comes before that which is to he hereafter, And must he dealt with first.
VITTOR1A.
But in what way ?
JULIA.
Let the soft wind that wafts to us the odor Of orange blossoms, let the laughing sea And the bright sunshine bathing all the world, Answer the question.
VITTORIA.
And for whom is meant This portrait that you speak of ?
JULIA.
For my friend The Cardinal Ippolito.
VITTORIA.
For him ?
JULIA.
Yes, for Ippolito the Magnificent.
'T is always flattering to a woman's pride
To be admired by one whom all admire.
VITTORIA.
Ah, Julia, she that makes herself a dove Is eaten by the hawk. Be on your guard. He is a Cardinal ; and his adoration Should be elsewhere directed.
12 MICHAEL ANGELO.
JULIA.
You forget
The horror of that night, when Barbarossa, The Moorish corsair, landed on our coast To seize me for the Sultan Soliman ; How in the dead of night, when all were sleeping, He scaled the castle wall ; how I escaped, And in my night-dress, mounting a swift steed, Fled to the mountains, and took refuge there Among the brigands. Then of all my friends The Cardinal Ippolito was first To come with his retainers to my rescue. Could I refuse the only boon he asked At such a time, my portrait ?
VJTTORIA.
I have heard
Strange stories of the splendors of his palace, And how, apparelled like a Spanish Prince, He rides through Rome Avith a long retinue Of Ethiopians and Numidians And Turks and Tartars, in fantastic dresses, Making a gallant show. Is this the way A Cardinal should live ?
JULIA.
He is so young ;
Hardly of age, or little more than that ; Beautiful, generous, fond of arts and letters, A poet, a musician, and a scholar ; Master of many languages, and a player On many instruments. In Rome, his palace Is the asylum of all men distinguished In art or science, and all Florentines
MICHAEL ANGELO. 15
Escaping from the tyranny of his cousin, Duke Alcssandro.
VITTORIA.
I have seen his portrait, Painted by Titian. You have painted it In brighter colors.
JULIA.
And my Cardinal,
At Itri, in the courtyard of his palace, Keeps a tame lion !
VITTORIA.
And so counterfeits St. Mark, the Evangelist !
JULIA.
Ah, your tame lion Is Michael Angelo.
VITTORIA.
You speak a name
That always thrills me with a noble sound, As of a trumpet ! Michael Angelo ! A lion all men fear and none can tame ; A man that all men honor, and the model That all should follow ; one who works and prays, For work is prayer, and consecrates his life To the sublime ideal of his art, Till art and life are one ; a man who holds Such place in all men's thoughts, that when they speak Of great things done, or to be done, his name Is ever on their lips.
16 MICHAEL ANGELO.
JULIA.
You too can paint
The portrait of your hero, and in colors Brighter than Titian's ; I might warn you also Against the dangers that beset your path ; But I forbear.
VITTORIA.
If I were made of marble, Of Fior di Persico or Pavonazzo, He might admire me : being but flesh and blood, I am no more to him than other women ; That is, am nothing.
JULIA.
Does he ride through Rome Upon his little mule, as he was wont, With his slouched hat, and boots -of Cordovan, As when I saw him last ?
VITTORIA.
Pray do not jest.
I cannot couple with his noble name A trivial word ! Look, how the setting sun Lights up Castel-a-mare and Sorrento, And changes Capri to a purple cloud ! And there Vesuvius with its plume of smoke, And the great city stretched upon the shore As in a dream !
JULIA.
Parthenope the Siren !
. VITTORIA.
And yon long line of lights, those sun-lit windows Blaze like the torches carried in procession To do her honor ! It is beautiful !
MICHAEL ANGEL 0. 17
JULIA.
I have no heart to feel the beauty of it ! My feet are weary, pacing up and clown These level flags, and wearier still my thoughts Treading the broken pavement of the Past. It is too sad. I will go in and rest, And make me ready for to-morrow's journey.
VITTORIA.
i will go with you ; for I would not lose
One hour of your dear presence. 'T is enough
Only to be in the same room with you.
I need not speak to you, nor hear you speak ;
If I but see you, I am satisfied [They go in.
II.
MONOLOGUE. MICHAEL AXGELO'S Studio. He is at work on the cartoon of the Last Judgment.
MICHAEL ANGELO.
Why did the Pope and his ten Cardinals Come here to lay this heavy task upon me ? Were not the paintings on the Sistine ceiling Enough for them ? They saw the Hebrew leader Waiting, and clutching his tempestuous beard, But heeded not. The bones of Julius Shook in their sepulchre. I heard the sound ; They only heard the sound of their own voices.
Are there no other artists here in Rome To do this work, that they must needs seek me ? Fra Bastian, my Fra Bastian, might have done it ; But he is lost to art. The Papal Seals,
18 MICHAEL ANGELO.
Like leaden weights upon a dead man's eyes,
Press down his lids ; and so the burden falls
On Michael Angelo, Chief Architect
And Painter of the Apostolic Palace.
That is the title they cajole me with,
To make me do their work and leave my own ;
But having once begun, I turn not back.
Blow, ye bright angels, on your golden trumpets
To the four corners of the earth, and wake
The dead to judgment ! Ye recording angels,
Open your books and read ! Ye dead, awake !
Rise from your graves, drowsy and drugged with death,
As men who suddenly aroused from sleep
Look round amazed, and know not where they are !
In happy hours, when the imagination Wakes like a wind at midnight, and the soul
MICHAEL ANGELO. 19
Trembles in all its leaves, it is a joy
To be uplifted on its wings, and listen
To the prophetic voices in the air
That call us onward. Then the work we do
Is a delight, and the obedient hand
Never grows weary. But how different is it
In the disconsolate, discouraged hours,
When all the wisdom of the world appears
As trivial as the gossip of a nurse
In a sick-room, and all our work seems useless.
What is it guides my hand, what thoughts possess me,
That I have drawn her face among the angels,
Where she will be hereafter ? O sweet dreams,
That through the vacant chambers of my heart
Walk in the silence, as familiar phantoms
Frequent an ancient house, what will ye Avith me ?
T is said that Emperors write their names in green
When under age, but when of age in purple.
So Love, the greatest Emperor of them all,
Writes his in green at first, but afterwards
In the imperial purple of our blood.
First love or last love, — which of these two passions
Is more omnipotent ? Which is more fair,
The star of morning or the evening star ?
The sunrise or the sunset of the heart ?
The hour when we look forth to the unknown,
And the advancing day consumes the shadows,
Or that when all the landscape of our lives
Lies stretched behind us, and familiar places
Gleam in the distance, and sweet memories
Rise like a tender haze, and magnify
The objects we behold, that soon must vanish ?
20 MICHAEL ANGEL 0.
What matters it to me, whose countenance
Is like Laocoon's, full of pain ; whose forehead
Is a ploughed harvest-field, where threescore years
Have sown in sorrow and have reaped in anguish ;
To me, the artisan, to whom all women
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 wi'th visions
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, 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, And crowns it with the aureole of a saint. I will go forth and breathe the air a while.
III.
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.
MICHAEL ANGELO. 21
MESSER CLA.UDIO.
After Fra Bernardino's wise discourse On the Pauline Epistles, certainly Some words of Michael Angelo on Art Were not amiss, to bring us back to earth.
MICHAEL ANGELO, at tll(J
How like a Saint or Goddess she appears ; Diana or Madonna, which I know not ! In attitude and aspect formed to be At once the artist's worship and despair !
VITTORIA.
Welcome, Maestro. We were waiting for you.
MICHAEL AXGELO.
I met your messenger upon the way, And hastened hither.
VITTORIA.
It is kind of you
To come to us, Avho linger here like gossips Wasting the afternoon in idle talk. These are all friends of mine and friends of yours.
MICHAEL AXGELO.
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
Between me and Ser Claudio Tolommci, Who still maintains that our Italian tongue
22 MICHAEL ANGELO.
Should be called Tuscan. But for that offence We will not quarrel with him.
MICHAEL ANGELO.
Eccellenza -
VITTOEIA.
Ser Claudio has banished Eccellenza
And all such titles from the Tuscan tongue.
MESSEK 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, 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
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,
MICHAEL ANGELO. 25
To build a convent in this neighborhood,
Where the old tower is standing, from whose top
Nero looked down upon the burning eity.
MICHAEL AXGELO.
It is an inspiration !
V1TTORIA.
I am doubtful
How I shall build ; how large to make the convent, And which way fronting.
MICHAEL AXGELO.
Ah, to build, to build ! 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, Existing in itself, and not in seeming A something it is not, surpasses them As substance shadow. Long, long years ago, Standing one morning near the Baths of Titus, I saw the statue of Laocoon 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 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
26 MICHAEL ANGELO.
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.
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 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 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 A1STGELO.
If strong enough.
VITTORIA.
If not, it can be strengthened.
MICHAEL AXGELO.
I see no bar nor drawback to this building,
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. 27
MICHAEL AXGELO.
Let us now go to the old walls you spake of, Vossignoria —
VITTORIA.
What, again, Maestro ?
MICHAEL ANGELO.
Pardon me, Messer Claudio, if once more I use the ancient courtesies of speech. I am too old to change.
IV.
CARDINAL IPPOLITO.
A richly furnished apartment hi the Palace of CARDINAL IPPOLITO. Niyht. JACOPO XARDI, an old man, alone.
NARDI.
I am bewildered. These Numidian slaves,
In strange attire ; these endless antechambers ;
This lighted hull, with all its golden splendors,
Pictures, and statues ! Can this be the dwelling
Of a disciple of that lowly Man
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
Who lives in boundless luxury 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.
The poor alone are outcasts ; they who risked
28
MICHAEL ANGELO.
All they possessed for liberty, and lost ;
And wander through the world without a friend,
Sick, comfortless, distressed, unknown, uncared for,
Enter CARDINAL IPPOLITO, in Spanish cloak and slouched hat. IPPOLITO.
I pray you pardon me that I have kept you Waiting so long alone.
The Cardinal.
And you ?
NARDI.
I wait to see
IPPOLITO.
I am the Cardinal ;
MICHAEL ANGELO. 20
NAKDJ.
Jacopo Nurdi.
IPPOLITO.
You arc welcome.
I was expecting you. Philippo Strozzi Had told me of your coming.
NARDI.
'T was his son 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, 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,
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 ; But greater honor still the love you bear
30 MICHAEL ANGELO.
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 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, 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, 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
MICHAEL ANGELO. 31
Arc turned by him to brothels, and the honor
Of women and all ancient pious customs
Are quite forgotten now. The offices
Of the Priori and Gonfalonier!
Have been abolished. All the magistrates
Are now his creatures. liberty is dead.
The very memory of all honest living
Is wiped away, and even our Tuscan tongue
Corrupted to a Lombard dialect.
1PPOLITO.
And worst of all his impious hand has broken The Martinella, — our great battle bell, That, sounding through three centuries, has led The Florentines to victory, — lest its voice Should waken in their souls some memory Of far-off times of glory.
NARDI.
What a change
Ten little years have made ! We all remember Those better days, when Niccola 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 Christ is dethroned, and slain, and in his stead Reigns Lucifer ! Alas, alas, for Florence !
IPPOL1TO.
Lilies with lilies, said Savonarola ; Florence and France ! But I say Florence only, Or only with the Emperor's hand to help us In sweeping out the rubbish.
32
MICHAEL ANGELO.
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,
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.
NAEDI.
We have determined 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
MICHAEL ANGELO. 33
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, Republicans and fugitives from Florence, And then take ship at Gaeta, and go To join the Emperor in his new crusade Against the Turk. I shall have time enough And opportunity to plead our cause.
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 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 !
Enter FRA SEBASTIANO ; Turkish Attendants. IPPOLITO.
Fra Bastiano, how your portly presence Contrasts with that of the spare Florentine Who has just left me !
FRA SEBASTIAXO.
As we passed each other, I saw that he was weeping.
3
34 MICHAEL ANGELO.
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 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
Is surely jesting. If you knew the life Of artists as I know it, you might think Far otherwise.
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 ; 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, Who trains the Papal choir.
MICHAEL ANGELO. 35
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, 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, 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 ! Then tell me of the artists.
FRA SEBASTIANO.
Naming one
I name them all ; for there is only one : His name is Mcsscr Michael Angelo.
36 MICHAEL ANGELO.
All art and artists of the present day Centre in him.
IPPOLITO.
You count yourself as nothing ?
FEA SEBASTIANO.
Or less than nothing, since I am at best Only a portrait -painter ; one who draws With greater or less skill, as best he may, The features of a face.
IPPOLITO.
And you have had
The honor, nay, the glory, of portraying Julia Gonzaga ! Do you count as nothing A privilege like that ? See there the portrait Rebuking you with its divine expression.
MICHAEL ANGELO. 37
Are you not penitent ? He whose skilful hand Painted that lovely picture has not right To vilipend the art of portrait-painting. But what of Michael Angelo ?
FRA SEBASTIANO.
But lately,
Strolling together down the crowded Corso, We stopped, well pleased, to see your Eminence Pass on an Arab steed, a noble creature, Which Michael Angelo, who is a lover Of all things beautiful, especially When they are Arab horses, much admired, And could not praise enough.
IPPOLITO, to an attendant.
Hassan, to-morrow,
When I am gone, but not till I am gone, — Be careful about that, — take Barbarossa To Messer Michael Angelo, the sculptor, Who lives there at Macello dei Corvi, Near to the Capitol ; and take besides Some ten mule-loads of provender, and say Your master sends them to him as a present.
FRA SEBASTIANO.
A princely gift. Though Michael Angelo Refuses presents from his Holiness, Yours he will not refuse.
IPPOLITO.
You think him like
Thymoetes, who received the wooden horse Into the walls of Troy. That book of Virgil
38 MICHAEL ANGELO.
Have I translated in Italian verse,
And shall, some day, when we have leisure for it,
Be pleased to read you. When I speak of Troy
I am reminded of another town
And of a lovelier Helen, our dear Countess
Julia Gonzaga. You remember, surely,
The adventure with the corsair Barbarossa,
And all that followed ?
FRA SEBASTIANO.
A most strange adventure ; A tale as marvellous and full of wonder As any in Boccaccio or Sacchetti ; Almost incredible !
IPPOLITO.
Were I a painter
I should not want a better theme than that : The lovely lady fleeing through the night In wild disorder ; and the brigands' camp With the red fire -light on their swarthy faces. Could you not paint it for me ?
FEA SEBASTIAKO.
No, not I. It is not in my line.
IPPOLITO.
Then you shall paint
The portrait of the corsair, when we bring him A prisoner chained to Naples ; for I feel Something like admiration for a man Who dared this strange adventure.
MICHAEL ANGELO. 41
FRA SEBASTIANO.
I will do it. But catch the corsair first.
IPPOLITO.
You may begin
To-morrow with the sword. Hassan, come hither ; Bring me the Turkish scimitar that hangs Beneath the picture yonder. Now unsheathe it. T is a Damascus blade ; you see the inscription In Arabic : La Allah ilia Allah, — There is no God but God.
FRA SEBASTIANO.
How beautiful
In fashion and in finish ! It is perfect. The Arsenal of Venice cannot boast A finer sword.
IPPOLITO. You like it ? It is yours.
FRA SEBASTIANO.
You do not mean it.
IPPOLITO.
I am not a Spaniard,
To say that it is yours and not to mean it. I have at Itri a whole armory
Full of such weapons. When you paint the portrait Of Barbarossa, it will be of use. You have not been rewarded as you should be For painting the Gonzaga. Throw this bauble Into the scale, and make the balance equal.
42 MICHAEL ANGELO.
Till then suspend it in your studio ; You artists like such trifles.
FEA SEBASTIANO.
I will keep it In memory of the donor. Many thanks.
IPPOLITO.
Fra Bastian, I am growing tired of Rome,
The old dead city, with the old dead people ;
Priests everywhere, like shadows on a wall,
And morning, noon, and night the ceaseless sound
Of convent bells. I must be gone from here ;
Though Ovid somewhere says that Rome is worthy
To be the dwelling-place of all the Gods,
I must be gone from here. To-morrow morning
I start for Itri, and go thence by sea
To join the Emperor, who is making war
Upon the Algerines ; perhaps to sink
Some Turkish galleys, and bring back in chains
The famous corsair. Thus would I avenge
The beautiful Gonzaga.
FRA SEBASTIANO.
An achievement
Worthy of Charlemagne, or of Orlando. Berni and Ariosto both shall add A canto to their poems, and describe you As Furioso and Innamorato. Now I must say good-night.
IPPOLITO.
You must not go ; First you shall sup with me. My seneschal,
MICHAEL ANGELO. 43
Giovan Andrea dal Borgo a San Sepolcro, —
I like to give the whole sonorous name,
It sounds so like a verse of the ^Eneid, —
Has brought me eels fresh from the Lake of Fondi,
And Lucrine oysters cradled in their shells :
These, with red Fondi wine, the Caocubun
That Horace speaks of, under a hundred keys
Kept safe, until the heir of Posthumus
Shall stain the pavement with it, make a feast
Fit for Lucullus, or Fra Bastian even ;
So we will go to supper, and be merry.
FRA SEBASTIAXO.
Beware ! Remember that Bolsena's eels
And Yernage wine once killed a Pope of Rome !
IPPOLITO.
'T was a French Pope ; and then so long ago ; Who knows ? — perhaps the story is not true.
V.
BORGO DELLE VERGINE AT NAPLES. Room in the Palace of JULIA GOXZAGA. Night. JULIA GONZAGA, GIOVANNI VALDESSO. JULIA.
Do not go yet.
VALDESSO.
The night is far advanced ; I fear to stay too late, and weary you With these discussions.
44 MICHAEL ANGELO.
JULIA.
I have much to say.
I speak to you, Yaldesso, with that frankness Which is the greatest privilege of friendship, — Speak as I hardly would to my confessor, Such is my confidence in you.
VALDESSO.
Dear Countess,
If loyalty to friendship be a claim Upon your confidence, then I may claim it.
JULIA.
Then sit again, and listen unto things That nearer are to me than life itself.
VALDESSO.
In all things I am happy to obey you,
And happiest then when you command me most.
JULIA.
Laying aside all useless rhetoric,
That is superfluous between us two,
I come at once unto the point, and say,
You know my outward life, my rank and fortune ;
Countess of Fondi, Duchess of Trajetto,
A widow rich and flattered, for whose hand
In marriage princes ask, and ask it only
To be rejected. All the world can offer
Lies at my feet. If I remind you of it,
It is not in the way of idle boasting,
But only to the better understanding
Of what comes after.
MICHAEL ANGELO. 45
* VALDESSO.
God hath given you also Beauty and intellect ; and the signal grace To lead a spotless life amid temptations, That others yield to.
JULIA.
But the inward life, -
That you know not ; 't is known but to myself, And is to me a mystery and a pain. A soul disquieted, and ill at case, A mind perplexed with doubts and apprehensions, A heart dissatisfied with all around me, And with myself, so that sometimes I weep, Discouraged and disgusted with the world.
VALDESSO.
Whene'er we cross a river at a ford, If we would pass in safety, we must keep Our eyes fixed steadfast on the shore beyond, For if we cast them on the flowing stream, The head swims with it ; so if we would cross The running flood of things here in the world, Our souls must not look down, but fix their sight On the firm land beyond.
JULIA.
I comprehend you.
You think I am too worldly ; that my head Swims with the giddy ing whirl of life about me. Is that your meaning ?
VALDESSO.
Yes ; your meditations
46 MICHAEL ANGELO.
Are more of this world and its vanities* Than of the world to come,
JULIA.
Between the two I am confused.
VALDESSO.
Yet have I seen you listen Enraptured when Fra Bernardino preached Of faith and hope and charity.
JULIA.
I listen,
But only as to music without meaning. It moves me for the moment, and I think How beautiful it is to be a saint, As dear Yittoria is ; but I am weak And wayward, and I soon fall back again To my old ways, so very easily. There are too many week-days for one Sunday.
VALDESSO.
Then take the Sunday with you through the week, And sweeten with it all the other days.
JULIA.
In part I do so ; for to put a stop
To idle tongues, what men might say of me
If I lived all alone here in my palace,
And not from a vocation that I feel
For the monastic life, I now am living
With Sister Caterina at the convent
Of Santa Chiara, and I come here only
MICHAEL ANGELO. 47
On certain days, for my affairs, or visits
Of ceremony, or to be with friends.
For I confess, to live among my friends
Is Paradise to me ; my Purgatory
Is living among people I dislike.
And so I pass my life in these two worlds,
This palace and the convent.
VALDESSO.
It was then
The fear of man, and not the love of God, That led you to this step. Why will you not Give all your heart to God ?
JULIA.
If God commands it,
Wherefore hath He not made me capable Of doing for Him what I wish to do As easily as I could offer Him This jewel from my hand, this gown I wear, Or aught else that is mine ?
VALDESSO.
The hindrance lies In that original sin, by which all fell.
JULIA.
Ah me, I cannot bring my troubled mind To wish well to that Adam, our first parent, Who by his sin lost Paradise for us, And brought such ills upon us.
VALDESSO.
We ourselves,
48 MICHAEL ANGELO.
When we commit a sin, lose Paradise, As much as he did. Let us think of this, And how we may regain it.
JULIA.
Teach me, then,
To harmonize the discord of my life, And stop the painful jangle of these wires.
VALDESSO.
That is a task impossible, until
You tune your heart-strings to a higher key
Than earthly melodies.
JULIA.
How shall I do it ?
Point out to me the way of this perfection, And I will follow you ; for you have made My soul enamored with it, and I cannot Rest satisfied until I find it out. But lead me privately, so that the world Hear not my steps ; I would not give occasion For talk among the people.
VALDESSO.
Now at last
I understand you fully. Then, what need Is there for us to beat about the bush ? I know what you desire of me.
JULIA.
What rudeness ! If you already know it, why not tell me ?
MICHAEL ANGELO. 49
VALDESSO.
Because I rather wait for you to ask it With your own lips.
JULIA.
Do me the kindness, then,
To speak without reserve ; and with all frankness, If you divine the truth, will I confess it.
VALDESSO.
I am content.
JULIA.
Then speak.
VALDESSO.
You would he free
From the vexatious thoughts that come and go Through your imagination, and would have me Point out some royal road and lady-like Which you may walk in, and not wound your feet ; You would attain to the divine perfection, And yet not turn your back upon the world ; You would possess humility within, But not reveal it in your outward actions ; You would have patience, hut without the rude Occasions that require its exercise ; You would despise the world, but in such fashion The world should not despise you in return ; Would clothe the soul with all the Christian graces, Yet not despoil the body of its gauds ; Would feed the soul with spiritual food, Yet not deprive the body of its feasts ; Would seem angelic in the sight of God, Yet not too saint-like in the eyes of men ;
50 MICHAEL ANGELO.
In short, would lead a holy Christian life In such a way that even your nearest friend Would not detect therein one circumstance To show a change from what it was before. Have I divined your secret ?
JULIA.
You have drawn
The portrait of my inner self as truly As the most skilful painter ever painted A human face.
VALDESSO.
This warrants me in saying You think you can win heaven by compromise, And not by verdict.
JULIA.
You have often told me That a bad compromise -was better even Than a good verdict.
VALDESSO.
Yes, in suits at law ; Not in religion. With the human soul There is no compromise. By faith alone Can man be justified.
JULIA.
Hush, dear Valdesso ; That is a heresy. Do not, I pray you, Proclaim it from the house-top, but preserve it As something precious, hidden in your heart, As I, who half believe and tremble at it.
MICHAEL ANGELO. 53
VALDESSO.
I must proclaim the truth.
JULIA.
Enthusiast !
Why must you ? You imperil both yourself And friends by your imprudence. Pray, be patient You have occasion now to show that virtue Which you lay stress upon. Let us return To our lost pathway. Show me by what steps
I shall Walk in it. [Convent bells are heard.
VALDESSO.
Hark ! the convent bells
Are ringing ; it is midnight ; I must leave you. And yet I linger. Pardon me, dear Countess, Since you to-night have made me your confessor, If I so far may venture, I will warn you Upon one point.
JULIA.
What is it ? Speak, I pray you, For I have no concealments in my conduct ; All is as open as the light of day. What is it you would warn me of ?
VALDESSO.
Your friendship With Cardinal Ippolito.
JULIA.
What is there
To cause suspicion or alarm in that, More than in friendships that I entertain With you and others ? I ne'er sat with him
54 MICHAEL ANGELO.
Alone at night, as I am sitting now With you, Yaldesso.
VALDESSO.
Pardon me ; the portrait That Era Bastiano painted was for him. Is that quite prudent ?
JULIA.
That is the same question Vittoria put to me, when I last saw her. I make you the same answer. That was not A pledge of love, but of pure gratitude. Recall the adventure of that dreadful night When Barbarossa with two thousand Moors Landed upon the coast, and in the darkness Attacked my castle. Then, without delay, The Cardinal came hurrying down from Rome To rescue and protect me. Was it wrong That in an hour like that I did not weigh Too nicely this or that, but granted him A boon that pleased him, and that flattered me ?
VALDESSO.
Only beware lest, in disguise of friendship, Another corsair, worse than Barbarossa, Steal in and seize the castle, not by storm But strategy. And now I take my leave.
JULIA.
Farewell ; but ere you go look forth and see How night hath hushed the clamor and the stir Of the tumultuous streets. The cloudless moon Roofs the whole city as with tiles of silver ;
MICHAEL ANGELO.
The dim, mysterious sea in silence sleeps ; And straight into the air Vesuvius lifts His plume of smoke. How beautiful it is !
[Voices in the street.
GIOVAN ANDREA.
Poisoned at Itri.
ANOTHER VOICE.
Poisoned ? Who is poisoned ?
GIOVAN ANDREA.
The Cardinal Ippolito, my master. Call it malaria. It was very sudden.
[Julia swoons.
56 MICHAEL ANGEL 0.
VI.
VITTORIA COLONNA.
A room in the Torre Argentina. VITTORIA COLONNA and JULIA GONZAGA.
VITTORIA.
Come to my arms and to my heart once more ; My soul goes out to meet you and embrace you, For we are of the sisterhood of sorrow. I know what you have suffered.
JULIA.
Name it not. Let me forget it.
VITTOKIA.
I will say no more.
Let me look at you. What a joy it is To see your face, to hear your voice again ! You bring with you a breath as of the morn, A memory of the far-off happy days When we were young. When did you come from Fondi ?
JULIA.
I have not been at Fondi since —
VITTORIA.
Ah me ! You need not speak the word ; I understand you.
JULIA.
I came from Naples by the lovely valley, The Terra di Lavoro.
MICHAEL ANGELO. 57
VITTOKiA.
And you find me
But just returned from n long journey northward. I have been staying with that noble woman Renee of France, the Duchess of Ferrara.
JULIA.
Oh, tell me of the Duchess. I have heard Flaminio speak her praises with such warmth That I am eager to hear more of her And of her brilliant court.
VITTOEIA.
You shall hear all.
But first sit down and listen patiently While I confess myself.
JULIA.
What deadly sin Have you committed ?
VITTOR1A.
Not a sin ; a folly.
I chid you once at Ischia, when you told me That brave Fra Bastian was to paint your portrait.
JULIA.
Well I remember it.
VITTORIA.
Then chide me now,
For I confess to something still more strange. Old as I am, I have at last consented To the entreaties and the supplications Of Michael Angelo —
58 MICHAEL ANGELO.
JULIA.
To marry him ?
VITTORIA.
I pray you, do not jest with me ! You know, Or you should know, that never such a thought Entered my breast. I am already married. The Marquis of Pescara is my husband, And death has not divorced us.
JULIA.
Pardon me. Have I offended you ?
VITTORIA.
No, but have hurt me. Unto my buried lord I give myself, Unto my friend the shadow of myself, My portrait. It is not from vanity, But for the love I bear him.
JULIA.
I rejoice
To hear these words. Oh, this will be a portrait Worthy of both of you ! [A knock.
VITTORIA.
Hark ! he is coming.
JULIA.
And shall I go or stay ?
VITTORIA.
By all means, stay.
MICHAEL ANGELO. 59
The drawing will be better for your presence ; You will enliven me.
JULIA.
I shall not speak ;
The presence of great men doth take from me All power of speech. I only gaze at them In silent wonder, as if they were gods, Or the inhabitants of some other planet.
Enter MICHAEL ANGELO. VITTORIA.
Come in.
MICHAEL ANGELO.
I fear my visit is ill-timed ; I interrupt you.
VITTORIA.
No ; this is a friend
Of yours as well as mine, — the Lady Julia, The Duchess of Trajetto.
MICHAEL ANGELO to JULIA.
I salute you.
'T is long since I have seen your face, my lady ; Pardon me if I say that having seen it, One never can forget it.
JULIA.
You are kind To keep me in your memory.
MICHAEL AXGELO.
It is
60 MTCHAEL ANGELO.
The privilege of age to speak with frankness. You will not be offended when I say That never was your beauty more divine.
JULIA.
When Michael Angelo condescends to flatter Or praise me, I am proud, and not offended.
VITTORIA.
Now this is gallantry enough for one ; Show me a little.
MICHAEL ANGELO.
Ah, my gracious lady,
You know I have not words to speak your praise. I think of you in silence. You conceal Your manifold perfections from all eyes, And make yourself more saint-like day by day, And day by day men worship you the more. But now your hour of martyrdom has come. You know why I am here.
VITTORIA.
Ah yes, I know it ;
And meet my fate with fortitude. You find me Surrounded by the labors of your hands : The Woman of Samaria at the Well, The Mater Dolorosa, and the Christ Upon the Cross, beneath which you have written Those memorable words of Alighieri, " Men have forgotten how much blood it costs."
MICHAEL ANGELO.
And now I come to add one labor more,
MICHAEL ANGELO. 63
If you will call that labor which is pleasure, And only pleasure.
VITTORIA.
How shall I be seated ?
MICHAEL ANGELO, opening his portfolio. Just as you are. The light falls well upon you.
VITTORIA.
I am ashamed to steal the time from you That should be given to the Sistine Chapel. How does that work go on ?
MICHAEL ANGELO,
But tardily.
Old men work slowly. Brain and hand alike Are dull and torpid. To die young is best, And not to be remembered as old men Tottering about in their decrepitude.
VITTORIA.
My dear Maestro ! have you, then, forgotten The story of Sophocles in his old age ?
MICHAEL AXGELO.
What story is it ?
VITTORIA.
When his sons accused him, Before the Areopagus, of dotage, For all defence, he read there to his judges The tragedy of (Edipus Coloneus, — The work of his old age.
64 MICHAEL ANGELO.
MICHAEL ANGELO.
'T is an illusion,
A fabulous story, that will lead old men Into a thousand follies and conceits.
VITTORIA.
So you may show to cavillers your painting Of the Last Judgment in the Sistine Chapel.
MICHAEL ANGELO.
Now you and Lady Julia shall resume The conversation that I interrupted.
VITTORIA.
It was of no great import ; nothing more Nor less than my late visit to Ferrara, And what I saw there in the ducal palace. Will it not interrupt you ?
MICHAEL ANGELO.
Not the least.
VITTORIA.
Well, first, then, of Duke Ercole : a man Cold in his manners, and reserved and silent, And yet magnificent in all his ways ; Not hospitable unto new ideas, But from state policy, and certain reasons Concerning the investiture of the duchy, A partisan of Rome, and consequently Intolerant of all the new opinions.
JULIA. I should not like the Duke. These silent men,
MICHAEL ANGELO. 65
Who only look and listen, are like wells That have no water in them, deep and empty. How could the daughter of a king of France Wed such a duke ?
MICHAEL ANGELO.
The men that women marry, And why they marry them, will always be A marvel and a mystery to the world.
VITTORIA.
And then the Duchess, — how shall I describe her,
Or tell the merits of that happy nature,
Which pleases most when least it thinks of pleasing ?
Not beautiful, perhaps, in form and feature,
Yet with an inward beauty, that shines through
Each look and attitude and word and gesture ;
A kindly grace of manner and behavior,
A something in her presence and her ways
That makes her beautiful beyond the reach
Of mere external beauty ; and in heart
So noble and devoted to the truth,
And so in sympathy with all who strive
After the higher life.
JULIA.
She draws me to her As much as her Duke Ercole repels me.
VITTORIA.
Then the devout and honorable women
That grace her court, and make it good to be there ;
Franccsca Bucyronia, the true-hearted,
Lavinia della Rovere and the Orsini,
66 MICHAEL ANGELO.
The Magdalena and the Cherubina, And Anne de Parthenai, who sings so sweetly ; All lovely women, fall of noble thoughts And aspirations after noble things.
JULIA.
Boccaccio would have envied you such dames.
VITTORIA.
No ; his Fiammettas and his Philomenas Are fitter company for Ser Giovanni ; I fear he hardly would have comprehended The women that I speak of.
MICHAEL ANGELO.
Yet he wrote
The story of Griselda. That is something To set down in his favor.
VITTORIA.
With these ladies
Was a young girl, Olympia M or at a, Daughter of Fulvio, the learned scholar, Famous in all the universities : A marvellous child, who at the spinning-wheel, And in the daily round of household cares, Hath learned both Greek and Latin ; and is now A favorite of the Duchess and companion Of Princess Anne. This beautiful young Sappho Sometimes recited to us Grecian odes That she had written, with a voice whose sadness Thrilled and o'ermastered me, and made me look Into the future time, and ask myself What destiny will be hers.
MICHAEL ANGELO.
JULIA.
A sad one, surely.
Frost kills the flowers that blossom out of season ; And these precocious intellects portend A life of sorrow or an early death.
V1TTORIA.
About the court were many learned men ; Chilian Sinapius from beyond the Alps,
07
And Celio Curione, and Manzolli,
The Duke's physician ; and a pale young man,
Charles d'Espeville of Geneva, whom the Duchess
Doth much delight to talk with and to read,
For he hath written a book of Institutes
The Duchess greatly praises, though some call it
The Koran of the heretics.
68 MICHAEL ANGELO.
JULIA.
And what poets
Were there to sing you madrigals and praise Olympia's eyes and Cherubina's tresses ?
VITTORIA.
None ; for great Ariosto is no more. The voice that filled those halls with melody Has long been hushed in death.
JULIA.
You should have made A pilgrimage unto the poet's tomb, And laid a wreath upon it, for the words He spake of you.
VITTORIA.
And of yourself no less, And of our master, Michael Angelo.
MICHAEL ANGELO.
Of me ?
VITTORIA.
Have you forgotten that he calls you Michael, less man than angel, and divine ? You are ungrateful.
MICHAEL ANGELO.
A mere play on words. That adjective he wanted for a rhyme, To match with Gian Bellino and Urbino.
VITTORIA.
Bernardo Tasso is no longer there,
MICHAEL ANGELO. 69
Nor the gay troubadour of Gascony, Clement Marot, surnamcd by flatterers The Prince of Poets and the Poet of Princes, Who, being looked upon with much disfavor By the Duke Ercole, has fled to Venice.
MICHAEL AXGELO.
There let him stay with Pietro Aretino,
The Scourge of Princes, also called Divine.
The title is so common in our mouths,
That even the Pifferari of Abruzzi,
Who play their bag-pipes in the streets of Rome
At the Epiphany, will bear it soon,
And will deserve it better than some poets.
YITTORIA.
What bee hath stung you ?
MICHAEL AXGELO.
One that makes no honey ;
One that comes buzzing in through every window, And stabs men with his sting. A bitter thought Passed through my mind, but it is gone again ; I spake too hastily.
JULIA.
I pray you, show me What you have done.
MICHAEL ANGELO.
Not yet ; it is not finished.
PART SECOND. I.
MONOLOGUE.
A room in MIOHAKL AXGELO'S Iwuse.
MICHAEL ANGELO.
FLED to Yiterbo, the old Papal city
Where once an Emperor, humbled in his pride,
Held the Pope's stirrup, as his Holiness
Alighted from his mule ! A fugitive
From Cardinal Caraffa's hate, who hurls
His thunders at the house of the Colonna,
With endless bitterness ! — Among the nuns
In Santa Catarina's convent hidden,
Herself in soul a nun ! And now she chides me
For my too frequent letters, that disturb
Her meditations, and that hinder me
And keep me from my work ; now graciously
She thanks me for the crucifix I sent her,
And says that she will keep it : with one hand
Inflicts a wound, and with the other heals it. [Reading.
" Profoundly I believed that God would grant you A supernatural faith to paint this Christ ; I wished for that which now I see fulfilled So marvellously, exceeding all my wishes. Nor more could be desired, or even so much. And greatly I rejoice that you have made The angel on the right so beautiful ; For the Archangel Michael will place you, You, Michael Angelo, on that new day,
74 MICHAEL ANGELO.
Upon the Lord's right hand ! And waiting that, How can I better serve you than to pray To this sweet Christ for you, and to beseech you To hold me altogether yours in all things."
Well, I will write less often, or no more,
But wait her coming. No one born in Rome
Can live elsewhere ; but he must pine for Rome,
And must return to it. I, who am born
And bred a Tuscan and a Florentine,
Feel the attraction, and I linger here
As if I were a pebble in the pavement
Trodden by priestly feet. This I endure,
Because I breathe in Rome an atmosphere
Heavy with odors of the laurel leaves
That crowned great heroes of the sword and pen,
In ages past. I feel myself exalted
To walk the streets in which a Virgil walked,
Or Trajan rode in triumph ; but far more,
And most of all, because the great Colonna
Breathes the same air I breathe, and is to me
An inspiration. Now that she is gone,
Rome is no longer Rome till she return.
This feeling overmasters me. I know not
If it be love, this strong desire to be
Forever in her presence ; but I know
That I, who was the friend of solitude,
And ever was best pleased when most alone,
Now weary grow of my own company.
For the first time old age seems lonely to me.
[Opening the Divina Commedia.
I turn for consolation to the leaves
Of the great master of our Tuscan tongue,
Whose words, like colored garnet-shirls in lava,
MICHAEL ANGELO. 75
Betray the heat in which they were engendered.
A mendicant, he ate the hitter bread
Of others, but repaid their meagre gifts
With immortality. In courts of princes
He was a by-word, and in streets of towns
Was mocked by children, like the Hebrew prophet,
Himself a prophet. I too know the cry,
Go up, thou bald head ! from a generation
That, wanting reverence, wanteth the best food
The soul can feed on. There 's not room enough
For age and youth upon this little planet.
Age must give way. There was not room enough
Even for this great poet. In his song
I hear reverberate the gates of Florence,
Closing upon him, never more to open ;
But mingled with the sound are melodies
Celestial from the gates of paradise.
He came, and he is gone. The people knew not
What manner of man was passing by their doors,
Until he passed no more ; but in his vision
He saw the torments and beatitudes
Of souls condemned or pardoned, and hath left
Behind him this sublime Apocalypse.
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.
76 MICHAEL ANGEL 0.
n.
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, speakmg 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,
MICHAEL ANGELO. 77
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 !
m.
MICHAEL ANGELO AND BENVEXUTO CELLINI. MICHAEL ANGELO, BEXVEXUTO CELLIXI in yay attire.
BENVENUTO.
A good day and good year to the divine Maestro Michael Angelo, the sculptor !
MICHAEL ANGELO.
Welcome, my Benvenuto.
78 MICHAEL ANGELO.
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
MICHAEL ANGELO. 81
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 wraking 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
82 MICHAEL ANGELO.
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 us. 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. 83
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 ?
EENVENUTO.
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 weapons, 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,
84 MICHAEL ANGELO.
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.
BENTENUTO.
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
MICHAEL ANGELO.
1 have not held in very high esteem The life of man.
85
MICHAEL ANGELO.
And who absolved Pope Clement ? Now let us speak of Art.
I3ENVENUTO.
Of what you will.
MICHAEL AXGELO.
Say, have you seen our friend Fra Bastian lately, Since by a turn of fortune he became Friar of the Signet ?
BEXVENUTO.
Faith, a pretty artist To pass his clays in stamping leaden seals On Papal bulls !
MICHAEL ANGELO.
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 Than 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,
MICHAEL ANGELO. 87
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 sec. The jewellers Say I 've surpassed Targhetta.
MICHAEL ANGELO.
Let me see it. A pretty jewel.
BENVENTJTO.
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.
Messcr 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
88 MICHAEL ANGELO.
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.
MICHAEL ANGELO. 89
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 AXGELO.
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.
90 MICHAEL ANGELO.
IV.
FRA SEBASTIANO DEL PIOMBO. MICHAEL ANGELO ; FRA SEBASTIANO DEL PIOMBO.
MICHAEL ANGELO, not turning round. Who is it ?
FKA 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.
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.
91
FHA SEBASTIANO.
Can you sit down in them, On summer afternoons, and play the lute, Or sing, or sleep the time away ?
MICHAEL AXGELO.
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 ?
92 MICHAEL ANGEL 0.
FBA 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.
FEA SEBASTIANO.
I will not excuse you.
You need repose from your incessant work ; Some recreation, some bright hours of pleasure.
MICHAEL ANGELO. 93
MICHAEL AXGELO.
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 SEBASTIAXO.
Berni, perhaps, will read A canto of the Orlando Inamorato.
MICHAEL AXGELO.
That is another reason for not going. If aught is tedious and intolerable, It is a poet reading his own verses.
FRA SEBAST1AXO.
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,
Luigi 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 SEBASTIAXO.
There is a Frenchman here, named Rabelais, Once a Franciscan friar, and now a doctor,
94 ' MICHAEL ANGELO.
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 ?
PRA 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.
FEA 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
MICHAEL ANGELO. 95
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.
FKA SEBASTIAXO, 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 AXGELO.
What is it, then ?
FKA SEBASTIAXO.
Vituperation ; gall that might have spirted From Aretino's pen.
MICHAEL AXGELO.
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
96 MICHAEL ANGEL 0,
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.
FEA 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 A1STGELO.
His praises were ironical. He knows How to use wrords as weapons, and to wound While seeming to defend. But look, Bastiano, See how the setting sun lights up that picture !
MICHAEL ANGELO. 97
FRA SEBASTIANO.
My portrait of Yittoria 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 oils, 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 sunsets, and the lovely forms of clouds
And flying vapors.
FRA SEBASTIANO.
And how soon they fade ! Behold yon line of roofs and belfries painted
98 MICHAEL ANGELO.
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,
MICHAEL ANGELO. 99
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 ;
100 MICHAEL ANGELO.
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.
PRA 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,
MICHAEL ANGELO. 101
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 thoughts, 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.
102 MICHAEL ANGELO.
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 Era 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 sr 3t of my life,
Locked up in silence, or 1 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.
MICHAEL ANGELO.
103
V.
MICHAEL ANGELO AND TITIAN : PALAZZO BELVEDERE.
TITIAN'S studio. A painting of Danae with a curtain before it. TITIAN, MICHAKL AXGELO,
and GIORGIO VASABI.
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
104 MICHAEL ANGELO.
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 fire,
Sudden and splendid, as the lightning paints The cloudy vault of heaven.
MICHAEL ANGELO.
105
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 AXGELO.
When you two
Are gone, who is there that remains behind To seize the pencil falling from your fingers ?
GIORGIO.
Oh, there arc many hands upraised already
To clutch at such a pri/e, which hardly wait
For death to loose your grasp, — a hundred of them
Schiavone, Bonifa/io, Campagnola,
106 MICHAEL ANGELO.
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
MICHAEL ANGELO. 109
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 mine,
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 back 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.
110 MICHAEL ANGELO.
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,
MICHAEL ANGELO.
Ill
Not one alone ; and therefore I may venture To put a question to you.
MICHAEL ANGELO.
Well, speak on.
GIOIIGIO.
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.
G10KG10.
No doubt, no doubt ; But you evade the question.
112 MICHAEL ANGELO.
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 Yasari, 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.
GIORGIO. Farewell.
MICHAEL ANGELO. 113
MICHAEL ANGELO to GIORGIO, f/OlilfJ 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 COLOXXA, seated in an ami, chair; JULIA GOXZAGA, stamliny near her.
JULIA.
It grieves me that I find you still so weak And suffering.
VITTORIA.
No, not suffering ; only dying. Death is the dullness 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.
8
114 MICHAEL ANGELO.
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 ?
VITTOKIA.
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 Yaldesso, 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,
MICHAEL ANGRLO.
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.
116 MICHAEL ANGELO.
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 flies,
Her weary body seemed to find repose. Like a sweet slumber in her lovely eyes,
When now the spirit Avas no longer there,
Was Avhat 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 ansAver, 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.
Yittoria ! speak ! What is it ? AnsAver 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. 119
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.
MICHAEL ANGELO.
How wonderful ! The light upon her face Shines from the windows of another world. Saints only have such faces. Holy angels ! Bear her like sainted Catherine to her rest !
[Kisses Vlttorias hand.
•PARTTHlRD-jijg
PART THIRD. I.
MONOLOGUE : MACELLO I)E' CORVI.
A room in MICHAEL ANGELO'S house. MICHAEL AXGELO standiny before a model of St. Peter's.
MICHAEL AXGELO.
BETTER than thou I cannot, Brunellcschi,
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 Avail,
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. |>i ixnue.
And is Fra Bastian dead ? Is all that light Gone out, that sunshine darkened ; all that music
124 MICHAEL ANGELO.
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 law 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.
MICHAEL ANGELO. 125
II.
VIGNA 1)1 PAPA GIULIO.
POPE JULIUS III. seated by the Fountain of Ac^ua t'eryiius, surrounded by Cardinals.
JULIUS.
Tell me, why is it ye are discontent, You, Cardinals Salviati and Marcello, With Michael Angclo ? 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 !
126 MICHAEL ANGELO.
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.
1 have seen his model, And have approved it. But here comes the artist,
MICHAEL ANGELO.
Beware of him. lie 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 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 ?
128 MICHAEL ANGELO,
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 A1STGELO.
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
MICHAEL ANGELO. 129
Concerning the Three Chapels in St. Peter's ; Certain supposed defects or imperfections, You doubtless can explain.
MICHAEL AXGELO.
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,
With permission, Monsignori What is it ye complain of ?
130 MICHAEL ANGELO.
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 SAL VI ATI.
How shquld we know ? You never told us of it.
MICHAEL ANGELO.
I neither am obliged, nor will I be,
- -
^ _
i
MICHAEL ANGELO. 133
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 Oil 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 man could die of grief and shame,
134 MICHAEL ANGELO.
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.
MICHAEL ANGELO. 135
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 purest conclusions
136 MICHAEL ANGELO.
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 Angela 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
Bears 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.
MICHAEL ANGELO. 137
III.
BINDO ALTOVITL
A street In Rome. BINDO ALTOVITI, standing at the door of his house. MICHAKL ANGELO,
passlny,
BINDO.
Good -morning, Mcsser Michael Angclo !
MICHAEL ANGELO.
Good-morning, Messer Bindo Altoviti !
BINDO.
What brings you forth so early ?
MICHAEL AXGELO.
The same reason
That keeps you standing sentinel at your door, — The air of this delicious summer morning. What news have you from Florence ?
BIXDO.
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.
138 MICHAEL ANGELO.
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.
MICHAEL ANGELO. 141
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 yob
MICHAEL ANGELO, IY
IN THE COLISEUM. MICHAEL AXGELO 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 school-boy 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.
MICHAEL ANGELO. 143
CAVALIERI.
But you are greater than Gaudentius was, And your work nobler.
MICHAEL AXGELO.
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.
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
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,
Could not give sweetness to a rose like this.
144 MICHAEL ANGELO.
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
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
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
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
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 Of robbers, and are haunted by the ghosts Of murdered men.
MICHAEL ANGELO. 147
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. 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 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 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. 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 Reeled, staggered, righted, and then headlong 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.
CAVALIERI.
But the earth does not move.
148 MICHAEL ANGELO.
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. 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, Being unsubstantial images of things As yet unseen.
V.
BENVENUTO AGAIN : MACELLO DE' CORVI.
MICHAEL ANGELO, BENVENUTO CELLINI.
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
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
To kiss the feet of our most Holy Father,
MICHAEL ANGELO. 149
And now am come in haste to kiss the hands Of my miraculous Master.
MICHAEL ANGELO.
And to find him Grown very old.
Never grow old.
BENVENUTO.
You know that precious stones
MICHAEL ANGELO.
Half sunk beneath the horizon, 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 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, 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,
150 MICHAEL ANGELO.
" My Benvenuto, I for many years Have known you as the greatest of all goldsmiths, 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, 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 ?
MICHAEL ANGELO. \§i
BEXVEXUTO.
When I left Rome for Paris, you remember 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.
BEXVEXUTO.
I have turned them all
To virtues. My impatient, wayward nature, That made me quick in quarrel, now has served me Where meekness could not, and where patience could not, As you shall hear now. I have cast in hronze A statue of Perseus, holding thus aloft 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.
MICHAEL ANGELO.
I see it as it should be.
BEXVEXUTO.
As it will be
When it is placed upon the Ducal Square, Half-way between your David and the Judith Of Donatello.
MICHAEL AXGELO.
Rival of them both !
152 MICHAEL ANGELO.
BENVENUTO.
But ah, what infinite trouble have I had
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
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,
Or thought of Perseus. What malignant falsehoods
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, 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, 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
MICHAEL ANGELO. 153
Stone rests on stone, and wanting the foundation All would be wanting, so in human life 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 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.
BENVEXUTO.
And ah, that casting ! What a wild scene it was, as late at night, 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 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 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,
154 MICHAEL ANGELO.
Like one who doth exhort a criminal
Led forth to death, exclaimed, " Poor Benvenuto,
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
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,
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,
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
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,
That could have happened to no man alive But you, my Benvenuto.
MICHAEL ANGELO. 157
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 ?
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
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, 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 To be a Florentine. That dream is ended. The Grand Duke Cosimo now reigns supreme ;
158 MICHAEL ANGELO.
All liberty is dead. Ah, woe is me ! I hoped to see my country rise to heights Of happiness and freedom yet unreached 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 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 Fairer than all the villas that encircle The towns of Tuscany.
BENTENUTO.
But your old friends !
MICHAEL ANGELO.
All dead by violence. Baccio Yalori Has been beheaded ; Guicciardini poisoned ; Philippo Strozzi strangled in his prison. Is Florence then a place for honest men To flourish in ? What is there to prevent My sharing the same fate ?
BENTENUTO.
Why, this: if all Your friends are dead, so are your enemies.
MICHAEL ANGELO.
Is Aretino dead ?
MICHAEL ANGELO. 159
BENVENUTO.
He lives in Venice, 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 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 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 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
160 MICHAEL ANGELO.
With what they do. I never am content, But always see the labors 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 angels
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 They made her, by her modest attitude, Appear half clothed. But I, who am a Christian, Do so subordinate belief to art That I have made the very violation Of modesty in martyrs and in virgins 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.
MICHAEL ANGELO. 161
MICHAEL AXGELO.
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
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
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
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 ?
BENVEXUTO.
Vanity.
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 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 soon will be forgotten. 11
162 MICHAEL ANGELO.
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 ; 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, 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, 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.
BENVENUTO.
And will you paint no more ?
MICHAEL ANGELO.
No more.
MICHAEL ANGELO. 163
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 ; 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,
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 Are but the hand-maids 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
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
164 MICHAEL ANGELO.
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, 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.
VI
URBINO'S FORTUNE. MICHAEL AXGELO'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.
UEBINO.
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.
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.
MICHAEL ANGELO. 165
URBINO.
At every stroke You strike fire with your chisel.
MICHAEL ANGELO.
Ay, because The marble is too hard.
UKBINO.
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, 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, 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 On the same level with the best, or higher.
URBINO.
How Eccellenza laughed !
MICHAEL ANGELO.
Poor Topolino !
166 MICHAEL ANGELO.
All men are not born artists, nor will labor E'er make them artists.
URBINO.
No, no more
Than Emperors, or Popes, or Cardinals. 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 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. But I grow old and weak. What wilt thou do When I am dead, Urbino ?
UKBINO.
Eccellenza, I must then serve another master.
MICHAEL ANGELO.
Never !
Bitter is servitude at best. Already So many years hast thou been serving me ; 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,
MICHAEL ANGELO.
When he is free from service ? Take this purse, Two thousand crowns in gold.
167
UliBIXO.
Two thousand crowns !
MICHAEL AXGELO.
Ay, it will make thee rich. Thou shalt not die A beggar in a hospital.
URBINO.
Oh, Master !
MICHAEL AXGELO.
I cannot have them with me on the journey That I am undertaking. The last garment That men will make for me will have no pockets.
UKBIXO, kisslny the hand of MICHAEL AXGELO. My generous master !
168 MICHAEL ANGELO.
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.
vn.
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,
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,
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,
They and their children, and their children's children,
MICHAEL ANGELO. 169
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
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,
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.
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.
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.
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 ?
Good-evening, holy father.
MONK.
God be with you.
170 MICHAEL ANGELO.
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, 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 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 Ne.w 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 are merely names. I think of it As the Celestial City, paved with gold, And sentinelled with angels.
MICHAEL ANGELO.
MICHAEL ANGELO.
Would it were.
I have just fled from it. It is beleaguered By Spanish troops and by the Duke of Alva.
MONK.
But still for me 't is the Celestial City, And I would see it once before I die.
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 Home ?
171
172 MICHAEL ANGELO.
MONK.
His Holiness.
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 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 !
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.
MICHAEL ANGELO. 173
MONK.
The catacombs, the convents, and the churches ; The ceremonies of the Holy Week In all their pomp, or, at the Epiphany, The Feast of the Santissima Bambino At Ara Coeli. But I shall not see them.
MICHAEL AXGELO.
These pompous ceremonies of the Church Are but an empty show to him who knows 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 AXGELO.
The smoke of incense and of altar candles Has blackened it already.
MOXK.
Woe is me !
Then I would hear Allegri's Miserere, Sung by the Papal choir.
MICHAEL AXGELO.
A dismal dirge !
I am an old, old man, and I have lived In Rome for thirty years and more, and know The jarring of the wheels of that great world, Its jealousies, its discords, and its strife. Therefore I say to you remain content
174 MICHAEL ANGELO.
Here in your convent, here among your woods, Where only there is peace, Go not to Rome. 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.
VIII.
THE DP: AD CHRIST.
MICHAEL ANGELO'S studio. MICHAEL ANGELO, ivith a light, working upon the Dead Christ.
Midnight.
MICHAEL ANGELO.
0 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 Have patience till it comes, and he will know.
1 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
In San Lorenzo, ah, so long ago !
Grateful to me is sleep ! More grateful now Than it was then ; for all my friends are dead ; And she is dead, the noblest of them all.
MICHAEL ANGELO. 177
I saw her face, when the great sculptor Death, Whom men should call Divine, had at a blow Stricken her into marble ; and I kissed Her cold white hand. What was it held me back From kissing her fair forehead, and those lips, Those dead, dumb lips ? Grateful to me is sleep !
Enter GIORGIO VASARI. GIORGIO.
Good-evening, or good-morning, for I know not Which of the two it is.
MICHAEL AXGELO.
How came you in ?
GIORGIO.
Why, by the door, as all men do.
MICHAEL AXGELO.
Ascanio Must have forgotten to bolt it.
GIORGIO.
Probably.
Am I a spirit, or so like a spirit, That I could slip through bolted door or window ? As I was passing down the street, I saw A glimmer of light, and heard the well-known chink Of chisel upon marble. So I entered, To see what keeps you from your bed so late.
MICHAEL ANGELO, cowing foriw.rd with the You have been revelling with your boon companions, Giorgio Yasari, and you come to me At an untimely hour.
178 MICHAEL ANGELO.
GIORGIO.
The Pope hath sent me. His Holiness desires to see again The drawing you once showed him of the dome Of the Basilica.
MICHAEL ANGELO.
We will look for it.
GIORGIO.
What is the marble group that glimmers there Behind you ?
MICHAEL ANGELO.
Nothing, and yet everything, - As one may take it. It is my own tomh, That I am building.
GIORGIO.
Do not hide it from me.
By our long friendship and the love I bear you, Refuse me not !
MICHAEL ANGELO, letting fall the lamp. Life hath become to me An empty theatre, — its lights extinguished, The music silent, and the actors gone ; And I alone sit musing on the scenes That once have been. I am so old that Death Oft plucks me by the cloak, to come with him ; And some day, like this lamp, shall I Ml down, And my last spark of life will be extinguished. Ah me ! ah me ! what darkness of despair ! So near to death, and yet so far from God !
NOTES.
PART FIRST.
COXDIVI, in his " Vite di Michael Angelo Buonarotti," describes him, when seventy-nine years old, as u of middle height, with broad shoulders and thin legs, having a large head, a face small in proportion to the size of his skull, a square forehead, full temples, high cheek bones, and a nose made flat by the fist of that beastly and proud man Torrigiano tie' Torrigiani." Torrigiani is said to have fled to England, and to have designed there, among other things, the tomb of Henry VIII. "His lips," continues Condivi, " are thin, and the lower, being the larger, appears to protrude when the face is seen in profile. His eyebrows are sparse ; his eyes gray, spotted with yellow and blue lights, and ever varying ; his ears of just proportion ; his hair, once black, is streaked with gray, as is his thin, forked beard, which is four or five fingers' breadth in length." Vasari's description does not differ materially from this, so that the student is enabled to know with some certainty what the personal appearance of the great master was. These descriptions have unques tionably been of important service in the hands of artists who have studied to produce a satisfac tory portrait of Michael Angelo. It is possible to find a large number of these portraits, and not easy to learn, even by a comparison of all the lives of the artist, which are founded upon the best authority. Mr. C. 1). E. Fortmun, who owns the original medallion portrait in wax by Leo Leone, which he discovered and identified, gives in an article on the portrait, published in the '• Archajological Journal " for March, 1875, a list of the only likenesses which can he considered authentic, namely : 1. A bronze bust at the Capitol, referred to by Vasari as the work by Daniel of Volterra. 2. A bust in marble from a mask taken after death. 3. Leo Leone's medal. 4. A figure in the foreground of the Assumption of the Virgin in the church at Santa Trinita at Rome. 5. A head painted by Marcello Venusti in his copy of " The Last Judgment." 6. A portrait ascribed to the same painter at Casa Buonarotti. 7. The engraving (profile) by Buonasoni. Mr. C. C. Perkins, in his " Raphael and Michael Angelo," mentions a portrait which was reproduced in the "Zeitschrift fur Bildene Kunst," vol. xi.. page 64, with a short article by Mr. J. K. \\ essely, who claims that it was drawn and engraved by Michael Angelo, and that it is the orig inal from which Ghisi worked.
The bronze bust.
The Leone ini'iliil.
riginal.
The portrait used as a frontispiece to the present volume has for its original a recent sttel en graving after Venusti's portrait by an eminent French artist. A fac-simile of Buonasoni's pro file is given on page 36, and an engraving from it is the centre of the head-piece to Part First. Francesco D'Ollanda's profile, with slouched hat and cloak, is given in the half-title to Part Third. Above is a sketch from the bronze bust in the Capitol at Rome ; the marble bust ; a sketch
180
NOTES.
of Venusti's portrait ; and the head from the Leone medal. This head is particularly interesting from the fact that it shows the artist when eighty-eight years old, and was made by his intimate friend Leo Leone. The reverse of the medal is a blind man led by a dog. Being much pleased with the woi-k, Michael Angelo gave Leone a wax model of his Hercules struggling with Antaeus.
The portraits of Vittoria Colonna, Marchesa de Pescara, which are given in this volume, are referred to in the notes at the proper places. She was born in 1490, betrothed to the Marquis de Pescara in 1495, and married to him in 1509. Pescara was killed in fighting against the French under the walls of Ravenna in 1512. It is not known when or where Vittoria Colonna first met Michael Angelo, but all authorities agree that it must have been about the year 1536, when he was over sixty years of age. She did not escape the espionage of the Inquisition, but was compelled in 1541 to fly to the convent at Viterbo. Three years later, she went to the convent of Benedictines of St. Anne in Rome, and just before her death, in 1547, she was taken to the house of Giuliano Cesarini, the husband of Giulia Colonna, her only relative in Rome. It was after she fled to the convent that she began to write sonnets to and receive them from Michael Angelo, whose love for her was not capable of being con cealed.
The profile of the Marquis de Pescara given here is from a medallion, an engraving of which may be .found in Harford's " Life of Michael Angelo."
Julia Gonzaga, Duchess of Trajetto, was known as the most beautiful woman in all Italy, and as the intimate friend of Vittoria Colonna. She also spent the last of her days in a convent. The portrait on page 10 was drawn from Se- bastiano del Piombo's painting known as " Saint Agatha." Another sketch of it, showing the veil, is given here.
With regard to Sebastian's portraits of Julia Gonzaga, the following, from Crowe and Cavalcaselli's " History of Painting in North Italy," will be inter esting : —
" The real portrait of Giulia Gonzaga is supposed to exist in two different collections. In the National Gallery, we have the likeness of a lady in the character of St. Agatha, as symbolized by a nimbus and pincers. Natural pose and posture and dignified mien indicate rank. The treatment is free and bold, but the colors are not blended with the care which Sebastian would surely have bestowed in such a case. In the Staedel Museum at Frankfort, the person represented is of a noble and elegant carriage, seated, in rich attire, and holding a fan made of feathers. A pretty landscape is seen through an opening, and a rich green hanging falls behind the figure. The handling curiously reminds us of Bronzino. It is well known that the likeness of Giulia was sent to Francis the First in Paris, and was registered in Lepicie's catalogue. The canvas of the National Gallery was purchased from the Borghese palace, the panel at Frankfort from the heirlooms of the late King of Holland. A third female portrait by Del Piombo deserves to be recorded in con nection with this inquiry, — that of Lord Radnor at Longford Castle, in which a lady with a crim son mantle and pearl head-dress stands in profile, resting her hands on the back of a chair. On a shawl which falls from the chair we read, ' Sunt laquei veneris cave.' The shape is slender as that of Vittoria Colonna in the Santangelo palace at Naples, but the color is too brown in light and too red in shadow to yield a pleasing effect, and were it proved that this is really Giulia Gon zaga the picture would not deserve Vasari's eulogy."
Page 16. Brifjhter than Titian's. Titian's real name was Tiziano Vecelio, called Da Cadore. He was born in 1477 and died in 1576. He studied with Gio. Bel lini, and succeeded Giorgione in his commissions. The original of the portrait on -, page 105 is a well-known engraving by Augostino Caracci. Herewith is given a sketch of another portrait of Titian, from Yriarte's " Venice."
NOTES.
181
II.
Page 17. Why did the Pope and his ten Cardinals come, h*>re to lay this hear y task upon me'.' "The Last Judgment" was begun in 1534, when Pan! III., Alessandro Farnese, was Pope. The portrait here given was drawn from one in Platina's " Vite de Pontifici," published in 1730.
Page 17. The bones of Julias. This refers to Julius II., Julian della Rovere, who became Pope in 1503. The portrait is given in various publications of Raphael's works.
Page 17. Fra Bastian, my Fra Bastian, might have done It.- Sebastian del Piombo, whose real name was Luciano, was born in 1485 and died in 1547. At one time he placed himself under the tutorship of Michael Angelo. He first studied with Gio. Bellini and Giorgione. The portrait given on page 91 has for its original the one in Vasari's works.
III.
Page 20. Vittoria Colonna, Claud to Tolommel, and others. Among the others was Francesco D'Ollanda, a miniature-painter, who was sent to Rome by the King of Portugal that he might study with the great artists. To him we are indebted for descriptions of two Sundays which he spent with Vittoria Colonna and Michael Angelo in the chapel of San Sylvestro. He painted the profile portrait which is given as a centre-piece to the half-title of Part Third.
IV.
Page 30. The Duke, my cousin, the Hack Alessandro. The portrait given on page 32 was drawn from a medal by Cellini, reproduced in Plon's life of that artist.
Page 30. The Wild Boar in the gardens of Lorenzo. Lorenzo de' Medi The portrait given here was drawn from one in Harford's " Life of Michael Angelo."
V.
Page 36. And you have had the honor, nay, the glory, of portraying Julia Gonzaga. In 1533 Cardinal Ippolito de Medici, being madly in love with Julia Gonzaga, sent Sebastian with an armed force to paint her portrait. It was accomplished in a month, and the portrait is said to have been one of Sebastian's best. It was sent to Francis I. of France.
Page 67, Head. The original of this head was drawn in black chalk by Michael Angelo. There is a difference of opinion among the authorities as to whether this is a study made from Vittoria Colonna or not. It is often referred to as a portrait, in various writings.
182
NOTES.
PART SECOND.
I.
The profile which forms the centre-piece of the half-title has for its original a drawing which has been ascribed to Michael Angelo as a study from Vittoria Colonna, but much discussion has not established this beyond doubt. It is claimed that a sonnet by Michael Angelo describes the costume in this picture so fully as to leave no doubt, and the sonnet, although not addressed to any one, is thought to be one of the many written by the great artist in praise of Vittoria Colonna. An interesting article on this subject, giving both the head and the sonnet, will be found in the " Gazette des Beaux Arts " for January, 1875.
Page 73. A fugitive from Cardinal Caraffa's hate. Cardinal Caraffa became Pope Paul IV. in 1555. The sketch of the portrait is taken from Platina's " Vite."
III.
Page 77. Welcome, my Benvenuto. Benvenuto Cellini was born in 1500 and died in 1570. His life was full of incident. At one time he was employed by Clement VII. as a musician as well as sculptor. The portrait on page 150 is the generally accepted one by Vasari. A sketch is given of the head used as a frontispiece to Plon's life of this artist.
Pao-e 81. / see the marvellous dome of Brunelleschi. Filippo Brunelleschi was born in 1377 and died in 1448. He is called the father of Renaissance. The dome of the cathedral at Florence, which he completed, is the one referred to in the text. The sketch of his portrait is from Yriarte's " Florence."
81. Ghiberti's gates of bronze. Lorenzo Ghiberti was born in 1370 and died in 1455. He was a goldsmith and sculptor. In 1400 he produced a design for the bronze gate to the baptistery at Florence, which was preferred to Brunel- leschi's. Michael Angelo said, as Mr. Longfellow has made him say (p. 100), that these gates were " worthy to be the gates of Paradise." The portrait given here is from Yriarte's " Florence."
81. Giotto's tower. Giotto di Bordone, born in 1276, died in 1336. He was a pupil of Cimabue, a painter as well as sculptor and architect. The bell tower of Santa Maria del Fiore in Florence is the one meant in the text. He did not live to see it completed. The head given here is from Yriarte's ' " Florence."
Page 81. And Ghirlandajo's lovely Bend glides. Domenico di Tomaso Cur- radi di Doffo Bigordi was born in 1449 and died in 1494. He was called Ghirlandajo from the fact that his father, a goldsmith, made beautiful garlands for the hair, so that the name signifying " garland twister " was given to him. The portrait is from Yriarte's " Florence."
Page 83. Under Pope Clement at the siege of Rome. Pope Clement VII., Giulio de' Medici, was made Pope in 1523. The portrait is given in Platina's
" Vite."
NOTES.
183
IV.
Page 96. See how the setting sun lights up that picture! The original por trait of which the head and shoulders is given in the engraving is in the museum at Florence. It was painted by Sebastian del Piombo. and has been rallt-.l .-. portrait of Vittoria Colonna, but there seems to be no certainty <>i its identity. The sketch given here shows another head ascribed to Sebastian as a portrait of Vittoria Colonna.
Page 99. When Pope Leo died. Leo X., Giovanni de' Medici, son of Lorenzo the Magnificent, was made Pope in 1513. The head here given was drawn from an engraving of Raphael's portrait.
Page 101. Yon strore in rivalry with Baldassare and Raphael ftanzio. Baldassare was born in 1481 and died in 1537. He suc ceeded Raphael as architect of Saint Peter's. The sketch given here was drawn from an en graving of Raphael's portrait.
Raphael Sanzio was born in 148.'5 and died in 1520. He studied under his father, and later with Perugino. The two portraits given Cravings of the originals.
are from authentic
Page 103. Our Vasari here. Giorgio Vasari, born in 1512 and died in 1574. His reputation rests upon his" Vite de piu eccellenti Pittori, Scultori et Architette," **••' published in 1555. His portrait will be found in Yriarte's " Florence."
Page 104. Three great names. Gioryione, Titian, and the Tintoretto. Gior- gione di Castelfranco, whose real name was Barbarelli, was born in 1477 and died in 1511. He was the founder of the Venetian school. The portrait from which the one herewith is sketched is given in Yriarte's " Venice."
The real name of Tintoretto was Jacopo Robusti. He was
>rett!> from the fact that his father was a dyer. He was born in 1512 ffl^iit&ti- ^^ and died in 1594. The portrait here given is to be found in ^Vf'fJjSr' Yriarte's " Venice."
Page 106. One Paul Cagliari, called the Veronese. Paul Cagliari was born in 1528 and died in 1588. He was the son of a sculptor. His portrait is given in Yriarte's " Venice."
called Tint
PART THIRD. II.
Page 125. Pope Julius III-, Giovanni Maria Giocci, was elected in 1550.. le original of the portrait given here is in Platina's " Vite," before quoted.
The original
184
NOTES.
Page 126. The labors of Bramante and San Gallo. Donate Lazzari Bramante was born in 1444 and died about 1514. He was an architect, painter, engraver, and military engineer. He was a compatriot and perhaps relative of Raphael, and was his friend and guide. It is known that he designed for Raphael the portico that surrounds the " School of Athens." He received from Julius II. the task of re building St. Peter's, and on his death-bed designated Raphael as the fit suc cessor. The portrait given was drawn from an engraving of Raphael's portrait in the Louvre.
Antonio San Gallo was a nephew of Giuliano San Gallo. He was born in 1482 and died in 1546. His real name was Picconi. In 1509 he was one of the con tractors for the wood-work in the Vatican and St. Peter's. He next became head carpenter at the castle, assistant to Raphael in 1516, and chief architect in 1520. The portrait is found in Yriarte's " Florence."
III.
Bindo Altoviti was a wealthy banker in Rome. He was born in 1491, and was related to Pope Innocent III. through his mother. He devoted his fortune to the encouragement of art. Michael Angelo, Raphael, Cellini, Sansovino, and Vasari were his inti mate friends. Michael Angelo gave him the cartoon from the Sis- tine Chapel called " The Intoxication of Noah." Raphael painted for him a Holy Family called " Madonna dell' Impannata," now in the Pitti palace. Below is given a sketch of Raphael's portrait of Altoviti, which in costume and in the pose of the head bears a striking resemblance to the well-known portrait of Raphael as a young man. See note to page 101. A sketch of Cellini's bust of Altoviti is also given here.
Page 137. Duke Cosimo, the tyrant, reigns supreme. Cosimo de' Medici, called The Great, was a son of Giovanni de' Medici. He was born in 1519, and on the death of Alexander in 1537 he was declared his successor. A sketch of Cellini's bust is given from the engraving in Plon's " Life of Cellini."
14 DAY USE
^ESK FROM WHICH BORROWED
LOAN DEPT.