That brave Fra Bastian was to paint | All power of speech. I only gaze at your portrait. them In silent wonder, as if they were gods Or the inhabitants of some other planet. Enter MICHAEL ANGELO. JULIA Well I remember it. VITTORIA. Then chide me now, Come in. VITTORIA. For I confess to something still more strange. Old as I am, I have at last consented MICHAEL ANGELO. I fear my visit is ill-timed To the entreaties and the supplications I interrupt you. JULIA VITTORIA. No; this is a friend To marry him? Of yours as well as mine, the Lady Julia, The Duchess of Trajetto. MICHAEL ANGELO to JULIA. When Michael Angelo condescends to flatter Or praise me, I am proud, and not of fended. VITTORIA. Hark! he is coming. Now this is gallantry enough for one; JULIA. And shall I go or stay? VITTORIA. By all means, stay. The drawing will be better for your pres ence; You will enliven me. JULIA I snall not speak; The presence of great men doth take from me Show me a little. MICHAEL ANGELO. Ah, my gracious lady, You know I have not words to speak I think of you in silence. You conceal your praise. 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 | The Tragedy of Edipus Coloneus, The work of his old age. come. VITTORIA. It was of no great import; nothing more And now I come to add one labor more, ure, And only pleasure. alike And what I saw there in the ducal pal JULIA. Are dull and torpid. To die young is I should not like the Duke. These silent best, And not to be remembered as old men VITTORIA. men, Who only look and listen, are like wells empty. My dear Maestro! have you, then, for- How could the daughter of a king of gotten The story of Sophocles in his old age? MICHAEL ANGELO. What story is it? VITTORIA. When his sons accused him, Or tell the merits of that happy nature, | A marvellous child, who at the spinning. Which pleases most when least it thinks of pleasing? Not beautiful, perhaps, in form and fea ture, 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 JULIA. wheel, And in the daily round of household 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 Boccaccio would have envied you such The Duchess greatly praises, though dames. VITTORIA. No; his Fiammettas and his Philomenas 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 Morata, Daughter of Fulvio, the learned scholar, Famous in all the universities. some call it The Koran of the heretics. PART SECOND. I. MONOLOGUE. A room in MICHAEL ANGELO's house. MICHAEL ANGELO. FLED to Viterbo, 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 I now 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 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 i Rome Can live elsewhere; but he must pine | Age must give way. for Rome, And must return to it. I, who am born 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. room enough There was not Even for this great poet. In his song Celestial from the gates of paradise. 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. II. VITERBO. For the first time old age seems lonely VITTORIA COLONNA at the convent win to me. dow. VITTORIA. For age and youth upon this little As quiet as the lake that lies beneath room enough |