Delphi Complete Works of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (Delphi Poets Series Book 13)

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Delphi Complete Works of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (Delphi Poets Series Book 13) Page 125

by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

To me, the artisan, to whom all women 65

  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 with visions 70

  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, 75

  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, 80

  And crowns it with the aureole of a saint.

  I will go forth and breathe the air awhile.

  II.

  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.

  MESSER CLAUDIO.

  After Fra Bernardino’s wise discourse

  On the Pauline Epistles, certainly 5

  Some words of Michael Angelo on Art

  Were not amiss, to bring us back to earth.

  MICHAEL ANGELO, at the door.

  How like a Saint or Goddess she appears!

  Diana or Madonna, which I know not,

  In attitude and aspect formed to be 10

  At once the artist’s worship and despair!

  VITTORIA.

  Welcome, Maestro. We were waiting for you.

  MICHAEL ANGELO.

  I met your messenger upon the way,

  And hastened hither.

  VITTORIA.

  It is kind of you

  To come to us, who linger here like gossips 15

  Wasting the afternoon in idle talk.

  These are all friends of mine and friends of yours.

  MICHAEL ANGELO.

  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 20

  Between me and Ser Claudio Tolommei,

  Who still maintains that our Italian tongue

  Should be called Tuscan. But for that offence

  We will not quarrel with him.

  MICHAEL ANGELO.

  Eccellenza —

  VITTORIA.

  Ser Claudio has banished Eccellenza 25

  And all such titles from the Tuscan tongue.

  MESSER 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, 30

  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 35

  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,

  To build a convent in this neighborhood, 40

  Where the old tower is standing, from whose top

  Nero looked down upon the burning city.

  MICHAEL ANGELO.

  It is an inspiration!

  VITTORIA.

  I am doubtful

  How I shall build; how large to make the convent,

  And which way fronting.

  MICHAEL ANGELO.

  Ah, to build, to build! 45

  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, 50

  Existing in itself, and not in seeming

  A something it is not, surpasses them

  As substance shadow. Long, long year ago,

  Standing one morning near the Baths of Titus,

  I saw the statue of Laocoön 55

  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 60

  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 65

  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. 70

  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 75

  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 80

  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 ANGELO.

  If strong enough.

  VITTORIA.

  If not, it can be strengthened.

  MICHAEL ANGELO.

  I see no bar nor drawback to this building, 85

  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.

  Let us now go to the old walls you spake of,

  Vossignoria —

  VITTORIA.

  What, again, Maestro? 90

  MICHAEL ANGELO.

  Pardon me, Messer Claudio, if once more

  I use the ancient courtesies of speech.

  I am too old to change.

  III.

  Cardinal Ippolito

  SCENE I. — A richly furnished apartment in the Palace of CARDINAL IPPOLITO. Night.

  JACOPO NARDI, an old man, alone.

  NARDI.

  I AM bewildered. These Numidian slaves,

  In strange attire; these endless antechambers;

  This lighted hall, with all its golden splendors,

  Pictures, and statues! Can this be the dwelling

  Of a disciple of that lowly Man 5

  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 10

  Who lives in boundless luxu
ry 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. 15

  The poor alone are outcasts; they who risked

  All they possessed for liberty, and lost;

  And wander through the world without a friend,

  Sick, comfortless, distressed, unknown, uncared for.

  SCENE II. — JACOPO NARDI; CARDINAL IPPOLITO, in Spanish cloak and slouched hat.

  IPPOLITO.

  I pray you pardon me if I have kept you 20

  Waiting so long alone.

  NARDI.

  I wait to see

  The Cardinal.

  IPPOLITO.

  I am the Cardinal;

  And you?

  NARDI.

  Jacopo Nardi.

  IPPOLITO.

  You are welcome.

  I was expecting you. Philippo Strozzi

  Had told me of your coming.

  NARDI.

  ‘T was his son 25

  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, 30

  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, 35

  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; 40

  But greater honor still the love you bear

  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 45

  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, 50

  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, 55

  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

  Are turned by him to brothels, and the honor 60

  Of woman and all ancient pious customs

  Are quite forgotten now. The offices

  Of the Priori and Gonfalonieri

  Have been abolished. All the magistrates

  Are now his creatures. Liberty is dead. 65

  The very memory of all honest living

  Is wiped away, and even our Tuscan tongue

  Corrupted to a Lombard dialect.

  IPPOLITO.

  And, worst of all, his impious hand has broken

  The Martinella, — our great battle bell, 70

  That, sounding through three centuries, has led

  The Florentines to victory, — lest its voice

  Should waken in their soul some memory

  Of far-off times of glory.

  NARDI.

  What a change

  Ten little years have made! We all remember 75

  Those better days, when Niccolà 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 80

  Christ is dethroned, and slain; and in his stead

  Reigns Lucifer! Alas, alas, for Florence!

  IPPOLITO.

  Lilies with lilies, said Savonarola;

  Florence and France! But I say Florence only,

  Or only with the Emperor’s hand to help us 85

  In sweeping out the rubbish.

  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, 90

  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.

  NARDI.

  We have determined 95

  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 100

  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, 105

  Republicans and fugitives from Florence,

  And then take ship at Gaëta, and go

  To join the Emperor in his new crusade

  Against the Turk. I shall have time enough

  And opportunity to plead our cause. 110

  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 115

  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!

  SCENE III. — CARDINAL IPPOLITO; FRA SEBASTIANO; Turkish attendants.

  IPPOLITO.

  Fra Bastiano, how your portly presence

  Contrasts with that of the spare Florentine 120

  Who has just left me!

  FRA SEBASTIANO.

  As we passed each other,

  I saw that he was weeping.

  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 125

  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 130

  Is surely jesting. If you knew the life

  Of artists as I know it, you might think

  Far otherwise.

&
nbsp; 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; 135

  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, 140

  Who trains the Papal choir.

  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, 145

  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, 150

  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! 155

  Then tell me of the artists.

  FRA SEBASTIANO.

  Naming one

  I name them all; for there is only one:

  His name is Messer Michael Angelo.

  All art and artists of the present day

  Centre in him.

  IPPOLITO.

  You count yourself as nothing? 160

  FRA SEBASTIANO.

  Or less than nothing, since I am at best

  Only a portrait-painter; one who draws

 

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