 | Correggio |  |
1
ACT FIRST.
A square in the village of Correggio in the background a wood; to the right a large hotel; to the left Antonio's cottage, with a garden, in which he sits painting. His wife is sitting to him; her son Giovanni stands beside her, with an Agnus-Dei staff in his hand.Antonio.
Stand still, boy—hush! A moment, and I've done!
Then you may go to play again.
Giovanni.
Dear father,
And won't Giovanni, in the picture there,
Be soon done, too?
Antonio.
He will.
Giovanni.
And mother?
Antonio.
Ay!
Giovanni
(to his mother).
Dear mother, you are Mary, that I see;
I am Giovanni; and my father paints us
There in the picture just as we are here;
But tell me where the little Jesus is,
That in the picture lies upon your breast?
2
In heaven.
Giovanni.
And how can father see him there?
Maria.
He thinks of Jesus as the loveliest child
He can conceive.
Giovanni
(musing).
Is that because he was
The loveliest of all children?
Maria.
Yes.
Antonio.
Stand still!
Giovanni.
Father, shall I become a painter too?
Antonio.
Time will show that; if thou'rt industrious,
Perhaps!
Giovanni.
Oh father, I will be industrious!
(Enter Silvestro from the wood. As he sees Antonio painting, he makes a sign to Maria, and places himself, unobserved, behind Antonio's chair, contemplating the picture.)
Silvestro
(to himself).
How beautiful!
IOVANNI
(to Silvestro).
My father says, I too
Shall be a painter.
3
(turns round and rises when he sees the hermit).
You here, reverend father!
Silvestro.
Do not let me disturb you; pray go on!
The colours will get dry.
Antonio.
Nay, for the present,
I've done enough, good father; and my boy
Will scarce submit to stand much longer still,
His young blood must be moving.
Silvestro.
How very beautiful this picture is!
Antonio.
I have another here, for you to hang
Within your cell!
Silvestro.
And you have thought of me?
Antonio.
The little thing is finish'd. You should be
Most truly welcome to the larger work,
But I, alas! must sell it presently;
We needs must live.
Silvestro.
My good Antonio,
I thank you from my heart! This lovely work
Would be too much for me; on me it would
Be thrown away. Nature is my great picture;
In yonder woodland shades divinity
Reveals itself to me. Pictures, my friend,
4
The man, whom levity and trivial cares
Wean step by step from nature and from God,
Is by the artist's hand led back to both.
Antonio.
Think you, our art is capable of that?
Silvestro.
Art is indeed the beauteous rainbow arch,
Which spans the void of space 'twixt earth and heaven.
Antonio.
That is religion's office, is it not?
Silvestro.
Not so; religion, like a cherub stands,
And bears the lovely toy upon her wings.
Antonio.
A toy! In very truth, you name it well!
I will go fetch your picture.
[Exit.
Silvestro.
Good Maria,
Tell me, how fares it with Antonio's health?
Maria.
Ah me! you see how pale he is.
Silvestro.
Nay, nay,
There's nothing, child, in that. Don't fret thyself.
He's very sensitive,—all artists are,—
Fire burns and wastes, you know, as well as warms.
Yet does his passion ne'er lay hold on him
With vulture talons, like a ravening beast;
It floats, a passing meteor, in the air,
And straight is quenched again. All that he needs
Is rest and cheerfulness, and these he has.
5
He is too good and gentle for this world;
Like his own art, a vision beautiful,
Which every passing cloud can overcast.
Oh, reverend father! there's a something here
Which says to me, I shall not keep him long.
Silvestro.
Maria, child!—what idle whims are these?
You weep?
Maria.
Oh yes! I shall not keep him long.
His spirit pants to soar above the earth;
Life is no more to him than a grey mist,
Shot with the dyes of the eternal light.
Silvestro.
Does he not love thee, say?
Maria.
Oh, yes! he loves me.
Silvestro.
And loves he not his child?
Maria.
No father more.
Silvestro.
And loves he not all things are worthy love?
Maria.
Heaven knows, he does, he does!
Silvestro.
Then dry your tears,
Trust God, and hope the best! His heart is full
Of this earth's sympathies and strivings yet.
6
As children do, whate'er delights the sense.
True, like bold eagles, they at times are fain
To mount o'er rock and cloudland up to heaven,
Yet do they love to drop again to earth,
Which gives its nurture to their fiery blood.
Life must love life perforce; 'tis nature's law.
Believe me, hoary eld alone can gaze
On Death's drear blank abysses undismay'd.
Maria.
He comes.
Silvestro.
My child, he must not see thee sad.
Antonio
(entering with a picture).
Your picture, reverend father, here it is!
Silvestro.
Ah, so! a sweet repentant Magdalen!
Antonio.
Refuge she sought, like you, in woodland shades;
But not, like you, from love of solitude
And being all aweary of the world;
A sinful girl, who, stung by sharp remorse,
Fled to the thicket like a startled roe,
To leave life's dread seductions far behind.
Yet is it fine, methinks, when woman thus,
Though fallen once, uplifts herself again;
There are not many men who compass that.
Therefore 'tis meet that as a saint she stand
Before our eyes. And seeing that she was
A lovely woman, I have, so to speak,
Portrayed her in the picture as the goddess
Of woodland eremites,—as your own goddess.
Well, there she is!
7
(smiling).
You artists, worst and best,
Can never quite abjure the pagan's creed.
As goddess! My own goddess!
Antonio.
Goddess, saint,
Are but two titles for one thing, I trow,—
Incarnate good, that works for our avail!
Silvestro.
So look'd at, possibly. A lovely picture!
The dusky forest gloom, the flaxen hair,
The pure white skin, the robe of azure blue,
The skull in contrast with youth's fullest bloom,
The woman's gentle grace, the mighty book,—
Herein you have, with matchless skill, resolved
Things opposite into divinest harmony.
Antonio.
I am indeed most glad it pleases you.
Silvestro.
I'll hang it up within my little cell;
There it will shed the dawn and sunset glow
Upon my morning and my evening prayers.
May Heaven compensate you, for I cannot;
I am a poor recluse. But pray accept
These roots, Antonio, for the love I bear you!
They're nourishing and wholesome, and their juice
Soothes, like some spicy draught, the weary frame!
Take them and drink them morning, friend, and eve,
At sunrise and at sunset; then shall I
Be on my knees before this lovely picture.
Their juice, my prayers, and your own nature, soon,
I trust, will bring you back to perfect health.
8
My illness has been gone this many a day.
Yet do I thank you heartily. I like
A spicy morning draught.
Silvestro.
Now fare ye well!
Antonio
(as Silvestro is about to retire).
Tarry a moment, friend, and let me look!
Has not the little picture caught a speck?
(contemplates the picture with affection.)
No! 'Tis untouched.—So! Good! And now farewell!
(Gives it back to him.)
Silvestro.
Farewell! Yet once again accept my thanks!
[Exit.
(During the preceding dialogue, the boy Giovanni has fetched a piece of charcoal, and sketched some figures of men upon the wall of the hotel.)
Antonio.
It always gives me pain to part, as now,
From any of my pictures. We become
So bound up with the thing our hands have formed;
It is a child, a portion of our soul!
How happy is the poet! He can have
His children all beside him at all times;
The painter, he is a poor father, who
Must send them forth into the great broad world,
Where they must thenceforth manage for themselves.
What is the boy about? How! painting fresco
Upon our neighbour's wall! Give over, child;
Landlord Battista will not suffer this.
You know he has forbidden it many a time.
Thou foolish urchin, do not draw the leg
9
So! That's something like the thing.
Ha! ha! the rogue is not so very bad!
But he must have a cap, to be complete.
Giovanni.
Oh, and a sabre, father, and a sabre!
Antonio.
And so he must.
Giovanni.
Let me make that myself!
Antonio.
Long, mind, and crooked!
Battista
(enters from the hotel, and sees him).
There the old fool stands,
Just like a little child, and helps the brat
To spoil my wall, in place of cuffing him.
Antonio, are you deaf?
Antonio
(with embarrassment).
Ah, neighbour mine!
Battista.
The devil! you too destroying all my wall?
Antonio.
Pray, take it not amiss, friend. Many a time
I have forbid the boy.
Battista.
Forbid, and yet
You lend a helping hand?
10
You see he made
This veteran's leg preposterously lean.
Nay, never frown! What mischief can it do,
To have the small soldado standing there
Upon the wall, a trusty sentinel?
He'll serve to scare off robbers from your house.
Battista.
That's more than you could do, with all your skill.
You let my wall alone, I say! If you
Won't punish your young whelp, I'll do't myself.
Antonio.
Come, come, friend, take it not so much amiss!
How can you be so angry with the boy?
The germ of what's to follow will peep out
Betimes. 'Tis instinct stirs within the child.
His fingers itch, and he perforce must paint.
Even so the duckling does not shun the brook.
Even so the young bird proves his pinion's strength
Water and air lure them; and colours him.
Battista.
Bah! Humbug! Saw you e'er my Francesco
Disfiguring the walls? There was a child,
Quiet, and well brought up! And now in Rome
He's growing a great painter.
Antonio.
Ah, indeed?
Battista.
I tell you, a great painter, so he is!
A real artist, one who paints by rule,
By science, sir! When once his schooling's done,
Under his present master, I will send him
To Raphael, who shall turn him out complete.
11
But Raphael has been dead these eighteen years.
Battista.
There's others living, then, as good as he!
I've money, and on him I stint it not;
And since the fashion has grown up of late
For every man to paint, why, zounds! my son
Shall paint it with the best. I've lots of cash!
On him I spare it not;—brushes I buy,
Chalks, colours, canvas, palettes, all he needs.
For to my thinking nothing is more sad,
Than art, kept down and marr'd by poverty.
Antonio.
And chiefly, when 'tis poverty of soul.
Battista.
What's that you say? What do you mean by that?
Antonio.
Think you, it is the brush that makes the painter?
Trust me, it never did, and never can.
Battista.
But my Francesco, look you, will be one!
None of your common village daubers he,
Who paint mere daylight,—no, but—
Antonio.
Night effects?
I can paint these too.
Battista.
Oh! Your trumpery picture!
There is not even common sense in that.
You make the infant, like a glow-worm, shine.
12
Prithee, blaspheme not! Common sense! Go to!
If you would comprehend what is divine,
Your soul must be by sense divine inspired.
Battista.
'Odslife, you deem yourself divine, methinks?
Antonio.
Sir, I am poor, self-tutor'd, and I claim
No place beside the great immortal men,
Who with their glorious works have bless'd the world.
Nay more, their works have never met mine eyes.
Still, still, that Nature form'd me too, like them,
An artist,—that I merit not thy scorn,
I do believe, nor do I stand alone
In so believing.
Battista.
Because silly fools
Have purchased now and then your showy daubs,
For sums a deal too large, you think so, eh?
Antonio.
Listen, Battista—you are mine host! Bravo!
You are a famous cook;—Bravissimo!
A famous cook is worthy of all honour.
You have found meals for me and my poor wife,
And I am some few scudi in your debt.
Have patience, I will sell my picture soon.
You must not let it disconcert you, friend,
Should your son prove no painter after all.
He can be something else. 'Twould never do,
Were all men to be painters for themselves.
There must be some to give the painters work.
Then do not fret,—have patience, and supply me
With what I want today, and one day more,
And I the next will pay you all I owe.
13
You shall have nought from me, till I am paid.
Antonio.
So be it—I cannot beg, I'll rather starve.
A Messenger
(enters and goes up to Battista.)
A letter, sir, from Rome.
[Exit.
Battista
(opens the letter and sees the signature.)
From my son's master?
Now shall you see, this sings a different strain.
Antonio
(stops him as he is about to read it.)
Is this the first you have received from him?
Battista.
Ay, but it will not be the last, I warrant.
Antonio.
He is reputed for a man of sense,
An honest man, and a good artist, too.
I'll wager now, that Lucas says, with me,
Your son, Francesco, ne'er will make a painter.
Battista.
How?
Antonio.
Do you take the bet—the stake a dinner?
Battista.
And what am I to have, if you shall lose?
Antonio.
My picture there!
14
The last that you have done?
Antonio.
My picture to a dinner, Lucas says,
Francesco ne'er will be a painter!
Battista.
Well,
You are a headstrong, self-conceited fellow!
Blame no one but yourself, then, if you lose.
Antonio
(offering him his hand).
Fear not. Is it a bet?
Battista.
I am content.
There is no need that we shake hands upon it.
'Tis only friends do that.
Antonio.
I am your foe,
As little, as Francesco is a painter.
Battista.
That's to be seen.
Antonio.
Now read!
Battista
(reads.)
“Take back your son!
He ne'er was meant by Nature for an artist,
And you but waste your money in the hope.”
(making an effort to restrain his wrath.)
Antonio.
Said I not well? I knew it must be so.
15
Nay, nay, why chafe? You have no cause for wrath.
Rather rejoice, you've fallen into the hands
Of one who neither robs you of your gold,
Nor cheats your son of his more precious years.
Send for Francesco home, let him assist you,
In keeping house here,—that is better far,
And much more rational in every way.
Nay, be not angry! but submit in peace.
Adieu! you'll mind the wager; 'tis our need
Constrains me to remind you, not my will.
[Exit.
Battista.
‘Take back your son; he ne'er was meant’—Confound it!
To have the saucy knave go crowing off,
Whilst I, poor devil, stand dumbfounded here!
Oh, that I knew some way to shame him!—ay!
To pull his pride down! There, there stands my house,
And there his cottage; not a stranger comes
Within my doors, but visits the dull rogue,
To look, forsooth, at these vile daubs of his.
They speak much more of him, in other towns,
Than of—
(enter Ottavio from the hotel.)
Here comes my Lord Ottavio!
I must be calm! He loves not solemn looks.
Ottavio.
Hilloah, Battista! How? You seem put out!
What have you there? A billet-doux? So ho!
Is it your sweetheart has discarded you?
Battista.
Not me, sir, but my son she has.
Ottavio.
Your son! How so?
16
The Muse, or whatsoe'er the jade is call'd!
His master writes from Rome, to say I ought
To take him home, for he will never make
A painter.
Ottavio.
So! I'm very glad to hear it;
Now he can be my keeper of accounts,
My steward.
Battista.
Oh, your Excellency! Thanks!
Ottavio.
I've long desired to make you this proposal;
You are too far away from me; I need
To have some person always near at hand.
I've miss'd you ever since you took this place.
'Tis not sufficient for my purpose, that
You come to me at Parma once a week.
Battista.
Indeed your Excellency's kindness moves
My father's heart—I may say, unto tears.
Ottavio.
How came you by a notion so absurd,
As e'er to make a painter of the boy?
Battista.
Because 'tis grown the fashion everywhere;
And artists now are held in such repute,
That even the nieces of the cardinals
Scarce serve them for their wives.
Ottavio.
Perhaps Antonio
Has put you on the thought by his example?
17
Oh, he's a miserable devil; ne'er
Set he his cap at dames of quality.
He was contented with much smaller game:
He took a potter's daughter for his wife.
Ottavio.
Battista, much I envy him his choice!
For she, compared with dames of quality,
Is as the rosebud to the painted vase.
Battista.
You think so?
Ottavio.
Know you what has kept me here
So long?
Battista.
Why, Hm! Your Eccellenza loves—
Ottavio.
You know?
Battista.
The charming landscape, and my house
Serves as a summer villa, so to speak.
I'm sadly grieved your Eccellenza can't
Stay longer with us at the present time.
Ottavio.
And I am grieved more sadly! Have they put
The saddle on my horse?
Battista.
They have, my lord!
Ottavio.
You follow me to town?
18
Yes, Eccellenza!
This afternoon.
Ottavio.
'Tis well! But, to return
To this same painter. Do you know, my friend,
That this poor painter doth a treasure own,
Which much I envy him?
Battista.
What! he, my lord?
A treasure? He has nothing,—not a farthing.
Ottavio.
Yet many a ducat would I gladly give,
To be the lord of that same treasure, friend.
Battista.
Your Eccellenza fills me with surprise!
Ottavio.
He has a rare Madonna, I were fain
To buy of him.
Battista.
Oh, his new picture! Well,
Its utmost value can't be very great.
Permit me, Eccellenza, to remark,
'Tis no ideal of God's mother; no,
'Tis only his own wife, and nothing more.
Ottavio.
What would you say, if this original
Were, in my eyes, the loveliest of Madonnas?
Battista.
Ah, now, my lord, a light breaks in on me:
The painter's wife has in your grace's eyes
Found grace.
19
No more; your prate is from the mark!
In all man's intercourse with woman, grace
Flows ever from the woman, be she fair.
Beauty's her patent of nobility.
Battista.
Your grace thinks like a cavalier, and does
High honour to your rank and ancestry.
Ottavio.
Yet were I loth to do the husband wrong.
You know him; say, is he the sort of man,
Who would—
Battista.
Lord, lord! He's a good easy soul,
That goes through life as if it were a dream.
'Tis my belief he took himself a wife,
Simply that he might have a model cheap.
She is the sweetest creature in the world;
Your lordship call'd her well Madonna. Yet
Her husband does not treat her as he should;
He lets her want for all those small nick-nacks,
A wife so young and handsome must desire;
Nay more, he scarce can find her bread to eat.
Sweetly she bears her lot, and patiently:
Indeed your grace would do a Christian act,
To show some kindness to the dear good soul.
Ottavio
(turns and observes Antonio, who has again come out, and is painting).
Again at work on that delicious picture!
He has another, liker to her still,
Which is completely finished; that I'll buy.
To Parma he shall come with wife and child,
And paint the ceiling of my great saloon.
(approaches Antonio, and salutes him.)
20
(aside).
Oh rare, oh rare! my vengeance comes unsought:
Ottavio.
This picture, too, will soon be finished; eh,
Master Antonio?
Antonio.
Yes, my gracious lord!
I hope that I shall finish it to-day.
Ottavio.
You had another, similar to this
In all respects.
Antonio.
Not quite the same, my lord;
I've chosen here a different attitude.
Ottavio.
Ah! may I see it, master?
Antonio.
Certainly.
(he fetches another picture.)
Ottavio.
Is this commissioned?
Antonio.
No, my lord, it still
Awaits a purchaser.
Ottavio.
So fair a creature,
As your most exquisite Madonna there,
Will not have long to wait for one, methinks.
Admirers will be found at every turn.
21
Admirers are abundant, but, my lord,
Mere admiration will not do for me.
Some rare coincidence of things must chance,
Ere he who most admires shall purchase too.
If admiration, good my lord, were all,
I need not with my picture travel far.
I know a man who dotes on it—a man,
To whom I'd be most glad to yield it up,
So he could only pay for it.
Ottavio.
And he?
Antonio.
Is here—myself, my lord.
Ottavio.
Yourself? Even so.
I comprehend; well may you love the picture,
'Tis very nicely touch'd, and does you honour.
Antonio.
Ah, 'tis not for the honour that I love it:
An artist needs must love his handiwork.
This is not vanity; he loves it, as
The outgrowth, the expression of his soul.
Ottavio.
And yet, methinks, Master Antonio may
Find solace for the loss. I have been told,
This sweet Madonna does not emanate
Wholly and solely from the artist's brain;
But that in this our outward world lives one,
Who has contributed no scanty share.
You still retain the graceful prototype;
The perfect statue stands within your home,
And what you sell is but a plaster cast.
22
A cast this picture can no ways be called;
And yet 'tis more a portrait than perhaps
It ought to be, and therefore have I made
A second here, of more ideal turn.
Ottavio
(aside).
Commend me to the portrait, though, my friend!
(Aloud)
Antonio, will you sell this charming picture?
Antonio
(springs up).
My gracious lord, I will—most readily.
Ottavio.
In Parma I have built a large saloon,
To hang the pictures which I value most.
There is no artist of repute, of whom
I have not some choice specimen, and you
Must also hang there.
Antonio.
My good lord, this honour
Surpasses my deserts. Have you indeed
Pictures by all the masters there?
Ottavio.
I have.
Antonio.
Except some few church pictures, I have seen
Nothing of the great masters.
Ottavio.
How did you
Become a painter, then?
Antonio.
Good only knows.
It grew up bit by bit, I know not how.
I've studied nature constantly, 'tis true.
23
Well, then, I wish to buy this work of yours.
To Parma bring it, and with all despatch,
And you shall then see all my treasures there.
I'll give you eighty scudi for the picture,
Paid down at once.
Antonio
(surprised).
Oh, that's too much, my lord!
My picture is not worth so large a price.
Ottavio.
A nobleman should prize all noble things;
He chaffers not with artists, he rewards them,—
And as their patron aids.
Antonio.
My gracious lord!
Ottavio.
In Parma you shall paint my portrait too.
But prithee, master, will you kindly ask
Your sweet young wife to step one moment forth,
Till I assure me, if her portrait's like.
Antonio.
She is a little shy, my gracious lord,
Before strange people, and especially
Men of such rank as you—
Ottavio.
Nay, that's mere fancy!
Pray call her forth!
Antonio.
I will, if you desire it.
Yet, as I said, I have not sought to catch
A likeness in the way that you suppose;
For portrait painting, in its proper sense,
I do not understand. (Calls)
Maria! Wife!—
'Tis only—well, well, you will see!—Maria!
24
(enters).
What do you want, dear husband?
(observes Ottavio, and curtseys to him.)
Antonio
(aside to her).
This gentleman
Has bought my picture, gives me eighty scudi.
He is a nobleman; he prizes art,
And wants to see, if the Maria there
(pointing to the picture)
Resembles, sweetest, the Maria here.
Ottavia.
Your name, fair lady, is Maria too?
Maria.
Yes, at your service.
Ottavio
(looks cursorily at the picture, and closely at Maria).
What delight I find
In tracing all the points wherein the two
Madonnas are alike, and where unlike.
Sir, 'tis most certain, you have shown much skill;
And to the natural bloom, the unmatch'd beauty,
Which are your bride's adornments, lent an air
Of holiness, of heavenward aspiration,
Which clothe her with a beauty nigh divine.
One thing alone, I know, clothes her more fairly;
The innocence, the sweet simplicity,
Which Nature's self has furnished her withal.
Who sees your picture only will be loud
In praise of the Madonna; he will say,
In Nature there is nought more beautiful!
But side by side who sees your wife and it,
In rapture must exclaim, This only God,
God only, and no painter, can create!
25
Must equally admire your skilful hand,
And the sweet grace and beauty of your wife.
Antonio.
You are too gracious, good my lord.
Ottavio.
And now
Time presses, and I must away to horse,
Though I would gladly linger in the chains
Of beauty, nature, art. But you will come,
And stay with me in Parma? My palazzo
Is large; and there we shall find room for you,
And for your wife and child. You have already
Painted in Parma some most charming frescoes,
In San Giuseppe's church, and San Giovanni's;
And you shall paint the roof of my saloon.
Farewell, my friend! Farewell, sweet mistress! We
Shall meet ere long, and then it shall go hard
But we are happy as our hearts can wish.
[Exit.
Battista.
Well now, Antonio, well! And will you say,
I brought you evil tidings?
Antonio.
Come! your hand!
You are an honest fellow!
Battista
(smiling malignantly).
Ah, no doubt!
But I must go to get your dinner ready.
[Exit.
Antonio.
By heavens, 'tis true; 'tis true! Whene'er our need
Is sorest, help is ever near at hand.
Come, wife, Maria, come, rejoice with me!
(embraces her.)
26
The world has some good people in it still?
A man has but to toil,—achieve some work,—
And straight he finds a patron, help, and friends!
Thou lookest sad! Nay, love, rejoice with me!
I cannot guide the pencil now; no, no!
My hand is full of tremor, like my heart,
For very gladness. (Enter Giovanni)
Come, thou darling boy,
Come with thy father! We shall dine anon;
Till then, my boy, we'll have a romp together.
(Takes the boy in his arms and goes into the wood with him.)
Maria.
Rejoice? Oh God, my heart forebodes some ill.
This lord, he shows too clearly by his look,
His touch—Oh, holy Virgin! My Antonio,
Dost thou rejoice? Thy pure, unspotted soul
Hath no suspicion of his vile intent.
Yet the betrayer shall be brought to shame.
But thou, thy hope, thy joy! alas for them!
No longer is our heaven serene and blue,
A hot sirocco fans us with its breath;
The hurricane ascends on murky clouds,
And lours above our little cottage home.
Alas, a doom is on our lowly lot!
The livid lightning, revelling in ruin,
Is charged with fate! and we—who, who shall save us?
END OF ACT FIRST.
| Correggio | |