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?
VICTORIA.
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 Valldesso, 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, 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.
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 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"--Is it of Laura that he here is speaking?--She doth not answer, 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.
Vittoria! speak! What is it? Answer 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.
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.
How wonderful! The light upon her face Shines from the windows of another world.
Saint only have such faces.Holy Angels!
Bear her like sainted Catherine to her rest!
[Kisses Vittoria's hand.
PART THIRD
I
MONOLOGUE
Macello de' Corvi.A room in MICHAEL ANGELO'S house.MICHAELANGELO, standing before a model of St.Peter's.
MICHAEL ANGELO.
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.
[A pause.
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.'T is 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, 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.
II
VIGNA DI PAPA GIULIO
POPE JULIUS III.seated by the Fountain of Acqua Vergine, surrounded by Cardinals.
JULIUS.
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.