I should not like the Duke. These silent men, 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?
The men that women marry, And why they marry them, will always be A marvel and a mystery to the world.
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 pleas- ing?
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.
She draws me to her As much as her Duke Ercole repels me.
Then the devout and honorable women
That grace her court, and make it good to be there; Francesca Bucyronia, the true-hearted, Lavinia della Rovere and the Orsini, The Magdalena and the Cherubina,
And Anne de Parthenai, who sings so sweetly; All lovely women, full of noble thoughts And aspirations after noble things.
Boccaccio would have envied you such dames.
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.
The story of Griselda. That is something To set down in his favor.
Was a young girl, Olympia Morata, 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.
Not yet; it is not finished.
A room in MICHAEL ANGELO's house.
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.
64 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 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, Betray the heat in which they were engendered. A mendicant, he ate the bitter 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.
VITTORIA COLONNA at the convent window.
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, speaking 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, 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!
MICHAEL ANGELO.
In my waking 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 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!
All skill in art and all desire of fame,
The work is nearly done. But this Last Judgment Were swallowed up in the delightful music
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?
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 I have not held in very high esteem
I would have killed him. The life of man.
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.
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 Beni, I beheld
A sea of fog, that covered all the plain, And hid from us the foe; when suddenly, 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.
Say, have you seen our friend Fra Bastian lately, Since by a turn of fortune he became
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,
Rome should be grateful to you. In his brown hood, attended by four horsemen,
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,
Completely armed, to frighten the banditti.
I think he would have frightened them alone, For he was rounder than the O of Giotto.
He must have looked more like a sack of meal Than a great painter.
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