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
And tenderness from his more gentle nature. I have but words of admiration
For his great genius, and the world is fairer That he lived in it.
Leads me about, a blind man, groping darkly Among the marvels of the past. I touch them, But do not see them.
There are things in Rome That one might walk bare-footed here from Venice But to see once, and then to die content.
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
I felt so once; but I have grown familiar
With desolation, and it has become
No more a pain to me, but a delight.
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.
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.
And paints with fire, Sudden and splendid, as the lightning paints The cloudy vault of heaven.
Above his door the arrogant inscription That once was painted there,
The color of TiWith the design of 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
Mingle together. Never yet was flesh Painted by hand of artist, dead or living, With such divine perfection.
Giorgio Vasari, 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!
Signori, pardon me; but all such questions Seem to me idle.
MICHAEL ANGELO to GIORGIO, going 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.
Let me forget it; for my memory
Serves me too often as an unkind friend,
And I remember things would forget,
VITTORIA COLONNA, seated in an arm-chair; JULIA While I forget the things I would remember.
GONZAGA, standing near her.
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.
Renée 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..
I will be very prudent. But speak no more, I pray; it wearies you.
Yes, I am very weary. Read to me.
Most willingly. What shall I read ?
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 read-
"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 lies.
Her weary body seemed to find repose.
Like a sweet slumber in her lovely eyes,
When now the spirit was no longer there,
Was what is dying called by the unwise.
E'en Death itself in her fair face seemed
fair." -
She doth not answer, yet is not asleep;
Is it of Laura that he here is speaking?-
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.
Vittoria! speak! What is it? Answer me!.
She only smiles, and stretches out her hands.
[The mirror falls and breaks.
Not disobedient to the heavenly vision! Pescara! my Pescara !
Better than thou I cannot, Brunelleschi,
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 wall,
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.
And is Fra Bastian dead? Is all that light
Gone out, that sunshine darkened; all that music
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. 'Tis against
The laws 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, ail is darkress!
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.
VIGNA DI PAPA GIULIO.
POPE JULIUS III. seated by the Fountain of Acqua Vergine, surrounded by Cardinals.
Tell me, why is it ye are discontent,
You, Cardinals Salviati and Marcello,
With Michael Angelo? 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.
You, Cardinal Salviati, Are an old man. Are you incapable? 'T is the old ox that draws the straightest furrow.
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.
Always Baccio Bigio! Is there no other architect on earth? Was it not he that sometime had in charge The harbor of Ancona ?
CARDINAL MARCELLO.
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
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.
You do forget yourself, to speak thus rudely
In presence of his Holiness, and to us
Now let us come to what concerns us more
Than bridge or gardens. Some complaints are made Who are his cardinals.
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