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27
ACT THE SECOND.
Scene as in First Act.Michael Angelo.—Julio Romano.
Julio.
Come! See, this place is cool, and 'neath the trees
The breeze is felt. Ha! there is the hotel;
A house of goodly size, as we were told,
And new withal. We are much better off
Here, than in Reggio.
Michael.
Confound the rascal!
Julio.
Nay, Master Michael, nay, your blood is hot;
No wonder, in a scorching day like this.
Come, sit beneath this tree, and let it cool;
Mine host, they say, is famous for his wine.
Rate not the driver with such venom, friend.
Wheels will break now and then, with every care;
Nay, on occasion, Time's great wheel itself
So lamely rolls, one almost might suppose,
It too were broke.
Michael.
You and your wheels be hang'd!
Julio.
Anon it goes as soft as sledge on snow,
Till we scarce think there is a wheel at all.
28
Pshaw, cease your jesting!
Julio.
When your anger ceases.
Michael.
You'll have to wait some time, then!
Julio.
Be it so,
I've still some quips in store. Come, sit ye down
Under this oak; more meet, no doubt, it were,
The laurel flung its shadows round your head;
But, be content, this leaf is also fine,
Kin to the laurel.
Michael
(seats himself).
Ho! You grow polite!
Julio.
Our dining with the duke in Modena,
Is now impossible.
Michael.
So it would seem.
Julio.
Our noble host, and he of Mantua,
Will wait for us in vain.
Michael.
And let them wait!
'Twill serve them for an exercise in patience;
And they have need of one.
Waiter
(enters).
Your orders, sirs?
29
Bring us some wine, my lad! What wines have you?
Waiter.
We have all sorts of wine, your Excellency.
Michael.
All from one hogshead tapp'd, eh? Is't not so?
Julio.
Bring us the best you have.
Michael.
Nay! what the plague,
You always make folks set us down for princes,
Travelling, for some mere whim, incognito,
But who, by reckless ostentatious waste,
Let out their secret, when they pay their bill.
Say, varlet, how's your Florentine? Good, eh?
Waiter.
'Tis excellent.
Michael.
A stoup of that, then! Quick!
[Exit waiter.
Julio.
Would you not rather have some sweeter wine?
Michael.
Great heaven forefend! You fancy sweet wine? Stay,
I'll call the fellow back.
Julio.
Nay, nay, I drink
What you drink.
Michael.
You do wisely. Your sweet wine
Is rarely wholesome,—taken freely, never.
Here it were worse than want. Be on your guard
30
Your master, the great Raphael, his life.
(Enter waiter, with wine.)
Julio.
Here is the wine.
(pours out some, and drinks.)
Ha! Famous! How refreshing
A cool draught is on such a broiling day!
Michael
(tasting the wine.)
This wine is trash. There's copper in it, knave!
Why, what the devil, would you poison us?
Another wine instanter,—better too,—
Or I will fling the goblet in your face!
Waiter.
Better we have, signor, but it is dear.
Michael.
For five baiocchi I can have the best.
Bring it this instant, rogue!
Waiter
(aside).
He knows what's what.
Julio.
Still the old man in small things as in great!
Michael.
What do you mean?
Julio.
I mean, good Master Michael,
You might have been, had you been so disposed,
A wine merchant. Now can you fancy why?
Michael.
Why, why?
31
Because Dame Nature, at your birth,
Endow'd you with the power, to make yourself,
Just as your fancy or your humour prompts,
Or great or small.
Michael.
The last is wondrous easy,
As here, alas! we see. Is it not shameful?
Our Italy is a paradise; all round
Wine gushes from huge clusters hanging free
On every highway, by the noon-day sun
Warm'd, ripen'd, fill'd with spirit and with fire;
But then comes man, and with his knavish tricks
Spoils and adulterates heaven's glorious gift.
Is it not scandalous?
Julio.
Well, well, don't fume!
Here comes a flask of better stuff no doubt.
(Enter waiter, with wine.)
Michael
(tasting).
The wine is good.
Waiter.
I wait your further orders.
Michael.
Begone! We'll call you, when we want you, knave!
Julio.
Shall we bespeak some dinner? And whilst they
Are making ready, we may to the church,
And see some pictures by the early masters.
There should be works of old Giotto's there,
Nay, even of Cimabue's.
Michael.
Why, man, though
32
On golden grounds by holy Luke himself,
I would not go. Have I not broiled enough
Under this heat already, and shall I
Go poking in damp aisles, to see how long
Art stumbled in its early days of darkness?
I'm sick to death of all this stuff! It may
Amuse one's curiosity awhile;
But say, what can it teach me? Tell me that!
True drawing you will look for there in vain,
And heads I can invent and sketch myself.
You like such things, I don't! So get you gone.
You have adopted, as your Raphael's heir,
His passionate love for the old catholic life.
That's your affair, not mine; but have a care,
In your next picture, that you don't endow
Your hero with a set of legs and arms
A world too puny! Such things in a saint
May pass unchidden, but a hero's frame
Must be a shade more brawny and compact.
Julio.
No painter makes his legs and arms, methinks,
More fitting for their place than Raphael did!
You speak as sculptor always—painter, never.
The stone expresses form, and colour soul.
Beauty of limb and mould we learn from Greece;
But in the stone the countenance is blanch'd,
And all the language of the eye is lost.
Rightly to feel the sentiment,—the soul,
Which from the face's lines discourses, we
Must closely scan art's simple infancy.
Michael.
Well, go, scan till you're sick on't. I stay here.
I much prefer such breezes fanning me
Under the leafy shade of boughs like these,
To wandering in search of musty saints,
In chancels, choirs, and dismal oratories.
33
Go to! You've often talk'd this way before,
And yet have been persuaded in the end,
To visit some old work of art with me.
Say what you will, you love simplicity,
And quiet power. You have an artist's heart;
'Tis only on your lips the sceptic rails.
Michael.
You are most condescending, most consoling!
Tush, man, your silken words are lost on me.
Nor soul have I, nor sentiment—I take
Your own new-fangled phrase—like your great master;
I am no Raphael, I am well aware.
Julio.
The powers of mighty men are various.
You both are true archangels in your art.
Michael, or Raphael, which is first? If he
Be like a cherub fair with silver pinions,
And blooming childlike head, you flame in mail,
A seraph borne on six vast oaring wings.
Michael.
The liquor's coppery fumes make you poetic.
Away, Sir Urian!—I meant to say
Sir Uriel. Of course, you are the third?
Eh, friend? Go to, sir flatterer, you may
Fool silly women,—me you don't.
Julio.
Come, come!
Michael.
I won't
Julio.
Well, stay, and order something good
For our refection.
34
I am sorely grieved,
You cannot feast it with the duke to-day.
A homely citizen of Florence I,
And used to craftsman's fare. Dine you with me,
You must put up with homely entertainment.
Julio.
Get what you please.
Michael.
Commend me to your saints!
Julio.
I will acquaint them of your Lenten fare;
'Twill please them well. They love such penances.
[Exit.
Michael.
Thou merry knave! 'Gad, his shrewd banterings
Have well nigh cured me of my surly fit.
A right good soul is Julio Romano,
Would he but lay his fopperies aside.
(drinks.)
[Enter Battista.
What sort of monkey have we here, I wonder?
Battista.
I've just this moment heard, with deep dismay,
The very near escape your grace has had,
In this unlucky business of the carriage.
The heavens be praised that matters are no worse!
'Tis a God's mercy that you were not hurt,
No fracture of the skull, or broken arm,
Or, what were worse than all, a broken leg.
For, come the worst to the worst, your grace belike
Might do without your arms—but without legs,
How could one ever get along in life?
Still, since an accident there was to be,
35
Self-praise becometh no man; but my house
Is good, and holds all heart of man could wish.
Michael.
Of that we've had a sample in your wine.
Battista.
I've given it roundly to that careless knave,
For bringing common wine to gentlefolks
Of your condition. There must always be
Distinction. We're all mortal men, 'tis true,
But, lord, degrees are different!
Michael.
Copper, sir,
No mortal man can in his vitals bear.
Battista.
It is not copper, Eccellenza; only
A little wormwood, meant to make the wine
Savour a trifle bitter on the tongue.
'Tis wholesome, very, Yet it stands to reason,
Your grace should have a higher class of wine.
Michael.
I'm neither gracious nor an Eccellenza;
Nor needs I should be, sir, to get good wine.
Battista.
May I be bold enough to ask your name?
Michael.
They call me Master Michael,—Michael of Florence.
Battista
(aside).
Michael of Florence? And with such a carriage,
Attendants, horses! Bah! I'll stake my life,
36
But fair and soft! his fancies must be humour'd.
(aloud.)
Ah, so, good Master!—Michael of Florence, eh?
Ha! ha!—What would you like to have for dinner?
Michael.
Laugh you at me?
Battista.
Nay, heaven forefend! He! he!
'Tis only at the name. Ha! ha!
Michael.
The devil!
And pray, sir, what's the matter with the name?
'Tis one a duke, sir, need not blush to wear.
Battista.
Oh, no; most certainly. Names are but titles,
Mere sounds that, spoken, die away in air.
Thus, for example, I am called Battista;
Yet that implies not that I am baptized,
Because—in fact, the thing is clear as day.
Michael.
And what, pray, think you, does my name import?
Battista.
There's something under it.
Michael.
You know me, then?
Battista.
Yes, by your attributes, most gracious sir.
Michael.
Have you seen any of my handiworks?
My attributes, as you are pleased to call them?
37
Well—attributes;—I mean the style you travel.
Michael
(impatiently.)
Know you that I am Buonarotti, sir?
Battista.
Can this be true? How! Michael—Buonarotti!
Yes, to be sure, the words exactly fit;
There only needs to add the Angelo,
And then we have the whole great man complete!
O rare good luck! Does my poor house contain
The mightiest of artists? Luck indeed!
Michael.
It may be so, my friend. I sit outside.
Battista.
Oh, blessings on the day!—most happy day!
Most noble sir, order, eat, drink, and sleep
Within my house unto your heart's content!
I'll not accept one penny from you, sir,—
No, not a maravedi!
Michael.
How so?
Battista.
How so?
Think you, mine host, who erewhile entertained
The Raphael, for whom the Raphael painted
A glorious picture in his dining-hall,
At parting, in requital—think you, sir,
He is the only man of all our craft,
Who bears a love for art within his breast?
No, surely not! And as, by all the world,
You're rated thrice as great as Raphael,
My admiration, wonder, and delight,
Of course are thrice as great!
38
And so, of course,
'Tis fit my gratitude, thrice greater, too,
Should paint three pictures for your dining-hall?
Battista.
The heavens forbid! The smallest chip of marble,
By your rare master chisel lightly touched,
What other talisman need I than that.
To draw all Europe thronging to my house?
Michael.
It grieves me I lack leisure, else I'd carve
An allegoric statue for your hall
Of Selfishness—the figure large as life.
I have the model ready to my hand.
(Observes Antonio, who has returned and resumed his work.)
What do I see? Per Bacco! as I live,
A painter, in his work abstracted,—lost!
Why, yes, it is so. Man, why beg of me,
When you possess here, at your very door,
Men who have both the power to paint, and will?
Battista
(aside).
I shall get nothing out of him, that's clear.
Well, I must turn his presence to account.
Michael.
Who is that man, who paints so busily?
Battista.
He is my best, most intimate of friends.
Michael.
A choice recommendation! (aside.)
If he be
As noble in his art as in his friendship,
He'll surely reach its highest pinnacle.
39
(Aside.)
It works. (Aloud.)
Great sir, you ought indeed to know him!
He's an original genius;—does not mould
Himself on great examples, nor by study;
No, no; with him all comes by nature, straight
From his own fancy. ‘'Tis the only way,’
I often hear him say; ‘for artifice
Destroys all real art.’ There as he sits,
Though you'd not guess it by his looks, I swear,
He thinks he's more than match for Raphael!
Michael.
A modest estimate!
Battista.
And yet he is
A good and worthy creature; only he
Can't bear to hear of artists city-bred.
He thinks their life may be more brilliant, but
He calls it much outcry and little wool.
Michael.
There he is right; sheep pasturing and wool
Thrive ever best where grass doth most abound.
Battista.
His little son, too, has a deal of genius;
There is a sketch of his upon the wall.
His father gave him very little help.
You cannot fancy his delight, good soul!
When he observed the boy's dexterity.
Michael.
I long to know a man of mark so great;
If such the apple, what must be the tree!
Battista.
So please you, I will introduce you, sir.
40
As brother in the art.
Battista.
I would prefer
Not to announce your name.
Michael.
Well, as you please!
Go babble with him to your heart's content,
And leave me here to drain my cup in peace.
Battista
(goes up to Antonio).
A good digestion to you, friend Antonio!
I hope your meal was to your mind to-day?
Antonio.
Dear sir, in sooth I'm heartily ashamed;
You've shown yourself so good and kind to me—
Whilst I to you—but pray forgive me, friend—
We are not always masters of our moods.
Battista.
Nay, nay, I was the surlier of the two.
You know one cannot always be himself.
But what of that, if all be right at heart?
Antonio.
No doubt, no doubt!
Battista.
Old neighbours are we, and
Good friends withal; or, if we are not so,
Why, then we may be.
Antonio.
Certainly we may.
Battista.
How gets the picture on?
41
It is completed,
The colours nearly dry. I paint but slowly,
In order that the colours may not run.
Battista.
The other picture, how does it come on?
You go with it to-day to Parma, eh?
My Lord Antonio's all impatience for it.
Antonio.
Not more impatient for the picture he,
Than I am for the money.
Battista.
Go at noon;
You may be back again ere eventide.
Antonio.
I'll have to be on foot, then, all day long.
Battista.
The road is good, and this is summer time.
Antonio.
It will be late before I cross the wood,
And there are robbers there.
Battista.
Tush! Never fear!
Antonio.
And I must buy some colours, too, in Parma.
Battista.
Nay, spare your money. You lay out almost
As much for colours as they bring you in.
42
Ultramarine and purple I must buy;
How can I paint without my colours?
Battista.
Do
Like other artists.
Antonio.
Ah, he is no painter,
Who loves not colours, nor has felt the need
Of their bright tints and lustres manifold.
Battista.
You should know best, of course. But now to speak
Of something else. You see the man who sits
There at the table drinking?
Antonio.
Yes I do.
A portly man, and bears him well. Who is he?
Battista.
A manufacturer—a dyer—who
Has made some money, on the strength of which,
The vulgar upstart prates with coarse conceit
Of all things, and is satisfied with none.
Antonio.
Indeed! indeed!
Battista.
This wine, for instance, which
You've drunk this many a day, and liked it well,
The Florentine,—even that contents him not.
He must, forsooth, have something quite select.
Antonio.
Rich folks are used to dainty things, you know.
43
The fellow's hurt my feelings to the quick;
Each word he spoke was coarse and scurrilous.
Antonio.
Oh, shame!
Battista.
I'll be avenged!
Antonio.
Nay, let it pass.
Battista.
Well, my revenge shall not be so severe.
The best revenge upon a dunce is wit.
Antonio.
There you are right.
Battista.
Wit I have none, my friend,
But you have plenty.
Antonio.
I? Heaven save the mark!
Bright spirits sometimes make me full of whim,
But witty I am not—I cannot sting.
Battista.
See, he approaches us, to view your picture!
Now, master, if you really are my friend,
So far oblige me as to tackle him
The merest bit. Nay, to it! You will feel
The way to set about it better far
Than I can prompt you. Take my word for it,
He'll soon give you your cue.
Antonio.
We get our answer
According as we halloo in the wood!
44
(advancing).
Have I permission, sir, to see your cards?
Antonio.
Oh, surely, sir! I play alone, 'tis true;
But you'll not blab the secret of my hand?
Michael.
Have you no fear of growing stupid, thus?
Antonio.
Oh, no! Approach as closely as you please.
Michael
(looks with astonishment at the picture).
Ha, what a play of colours!
Antonio.
So! The dame
Is gay enough? A Bellamira, eh?
Michael.
Good man, you colour excellently well.
Antonio.
Indeed? Might I not be a dyer, too?
Michael.
What do you mean by that? Do you not hear?
I tell you seriously, your colour's good.
Antonio.
Alas! sir, no; I'm pale, if anything.
Michael.
You've talent.
Antonio.
You don't say so?
45
(excited, but checking himself).
Yes, sir—talent!
Antonio.
Well, I believe it, since you've said so twice.
Michael.
Yet, sir, you cannot draw, and are, to boot,
As trivial in your art as in your life.
Antonio.
How so?
Michael.
Where, for example, did you learn
To twist these pretty little fingers so?
Antonio
(Rises up and contemplates with surprise first Michael, and then the picture.)
You think—
Michael.
And what an over-sugar'd smile?
The picture's excellent; more pity, then,
You're out so far in the foreshortening.
Antonio.
How so, sir?
Michael.
Seriously, do you believe,
You know the way to draw a leg or arm?
Antonio.
Who are you?
Michael
(takes up a crayon).
Look! Then tell me what you think.
Suppose this upper arm extended,—and
46
Instead of dangling there, as now it does,
Like a distorted sausage, puff'd and swollen!
Antonio.
You mean, then—Yes, by heaven! I think you're right.
Who are you?
Michael
(haughtily).
One who has a right to speak,
And one to whom you more respect had shown,
Had you not been a very bungler, sir.
Antonio.
Who are you? God in heaven! Who?
Michael.
Your servant!
(He is about to retire, when Antonio seizes his hand, and examines a large signet ring which has caught his eye.)
Antonio.
You are—Great heavens! The Vintage of the Dryads!
I know this ring by reputation well;
You—you are Buonarotti!
Michael.
Possibly.
[Going.
Antonio.
Oh, stay—if only for a moment, stay!
Forgive me, if unluckily I have
From levity, caprice, and much misled—
(seizes his picture.)
Look at this picture yet once more! Once more
Tell me—no, no, you will not tell me so!
47
Do you indeed think so?
Michael
(contemptuously and with violence).
Go, go! you are
A pitiful, weak creature! Full, at first,
Of self-conceit and boorish pride,—anon,
Of vile servility and boyish tears.
Go to! You never will set foot within
Art's sanctuary. Though colour's dazzling hues
May glow before your eyes, and on your canvas,
A spirit so irresolute and abject
To real greatness ne'er will cleave its way.
[Exit, followed by Battista.
Antonio
(lays his picture aside).
Is it a dream? Or was it Buonarotti,
The mighty artist, who was here? Were these
The words he spoke? I hope 'tis but a dream!
(Sits down with his hands before his eyes: then starts up.)
My brain whirls round, and yet I am awake.
A voice of dreadful note has broke my sleep:
I am a bungler! Surely, surely not!
I'd ne'er believe it, had these ears not heard
Great Buonarotti's self proclaim me so.
(Stands lost in thought.)
Mists rosy-radiant swam before mine eyes.
I deem'd them forms of universal truth,
And seized my brush to fix what then I saw,
When lo! my work resolved to mist again!
A gaudy toy, devoid of feeling, soul,
Invention, purpose, dignity, proportion!
This I had ne'er surmised! Day after day,
I went to work, I did, with guileless heart,
And soul devoutly fervent. As I sat
48
I knelt before the Great Eternal's shrine,
And He revealed unto my wondering eyes
His far-off majesty. But I was wrong;
Alas! how wrong! how wrong!
(a pause.)
When but a child,
One day I went to Florence with my father.
Whilst he was buying in the market-place,
I slipp'd away to San Lorenzo's church;
There at the tombs I stood of Julius, and
Lorenzo, and those forms immortal saw,
The Day, the Night, the Twilight, and the Dawn
Of Michael Angelo, in pure white marble.
A moment's glance was all that I could steal,
Yet did that glance sink deep into my soul;
It was the one sole work of high true art
My eyes had look'd upon. It was so strange,
So grand, so fine, and yet so dead, so still,
That I felt glad, when, issuing forth, I saw
The clear blue sky, and dappled flowers again.
Now in that vaulted tomb once more I stand,
And all bright forms of gay and transient grace
Again have fled, and leave me shuddering
Before that Night and Twilight, self-annull'd.
So be it; henceforth I will paint no more!
God knows, I ne'er did so from vanity,
But rather as the bee constructs his cell,
Or as the bird instinctive builds his nest.
Oh, if 'twere all a dream!—Once more he shall,
Ay, yet once more—not passionately, in wrath,
But with serene and tranquil dignity,
Like his own Day there on Lorenzo's tomb,
Repeat that word to me—and then—good night,
Thou beauteous art! I'm what I was before,
A poor, untutor'd peasant. Be it so!
I will not grieve, nor yield me to despair;
I still can boast a quiet conscience. Grant,
I be no artist, abject I am not;
49
Should say I were, here is a voice that cries,
Such thou art not! And that voice comes from God!
Maria
(enters).
What is the matter, dear Antonio? Sad?
Not painting? This is marvellous indeed.
Alone, and yet not busy at your work!
Antonio.
Maria, dearest wife, my painting's done.
Maria.
How! Have you finish'd, quite?
Antonio
(pressing her hand mournfully).
I have, my child.
Maria.
What ails you? Heavens! you weep, Antonio?
Antonio.
Not so, my love!
Maria.
Dear husband, what's the matter?
Speak to me!
Antonio.
Dearest wife, be not alarmed.
I have been turning over in my mind
The life we lead, its future and its past,
And I have felt that this pursuit of mine
Provides us bread, but does not make us happy,
And therefore have I inwardly resolved
To give it up.
Maria.
I understand you not.
50
When seven years since I ask'd you for my bride
From your old father, you perchance remember,
What were the old man's words. ‘Antonio,’ said he,
‘Give up this painting. He that dwells like you,
Dreaming for ever in the world of art,
Will ne'er get on in life. The artist makes
A sorry husband; in his heart his wife
Is second to his Muse; and daughter, son,
Are in the children of his brain forgot.’
Maria.
A good, kind soul he was, a homely root,
That spread and grew in silence 'neath the soil,
But was not meant to culminate in flower.
Think not of what he spake!
Antonio.
‘Become,’ he said, ‘a potter, and like me
Paint little pictures on the clay for sale.
So live with wife and child, aloof from care,
Your time, your life, devoted all to them.’
Maria.
He had not power to see, that what I loved
Was your aspiring soul, your gifted mind;
Nay more, that 'twas thy art which made me happy,
Because it was a portion of my love.
Antonio.
We often think things are, love, which are not.
I have not made you happy, as you say.
Maria.
Antonio, do you wish to give me pain?
Antonio
(embracing her.)
Thou art an angel! Murmur never crossed
51
I have not given thee, darling, as I should,
The riches of my heart, but wasted them
On airy phantoms chiefly. What I earn'd
I spent in part upon expensive colours,
And have not managed wisely with the rest.
At times we lived in superfluity,
But oftener lack'd the barest necessaries.
Thy gentle heart hath thus been sorely tried.
No matter, this shall be no longer so!
We will not aim at the impossible.
No more wild fancies! I am humbled now;
I'll step back to mine old obscurity,
And a good artist if I may not be,
I shall be a good husband, a good father.
Maria.
Thou not an artist! Thou! If that be so,
Art blooms not on this earth.
Antonio.
Dear wife, thou lov'st me.
Maria.
Yes; for I know thee wholly, what thou art.
Antonio
(takes her by the hand, and conducts her to his picture, and contemplates her and the picture by turns).
Thy smile is sweet, is innocent. You see
This mincing sugar'd simper?
Maria.
Antonio!
Antonio.
Its faults, I see them now. Ah, why had I
No trusty friend, who might long, long ago
52
The capability to set them right.
Maria.
Great heavens! what can have happen'd?
Antonio.
Yet, methinks
There is a something here in this poor picture
Not quite to be despised. 'Tis not mere colour,
Not mere dexterity of hand, not merely
The undulating play of light and shade,
But something too of beautiful, of grand.
Maria.
What can have happen'd? Answer me, Antonio!
Antonio
(after a pause, more tranquilly).
Once more he shall pronounce it. Twice he hath
Thunder'd the sentence forth, yet must it be
A third time utter'd; and, if utter'd, why,—
Thenceforth I'll paint on clay.
Maria.
Who has been here?
Antonio.
The famous Michael Angelo Buonarotti.
Maria.
And he? What said he?
Antonio.
Hush, child! Let us wait,
Till for the third time he pronounce the sentence.
I cannot tear myself without a pang
From that fair loftier world. Ay, yet once more,
Once more, and then—then I will paint on clay!
END OF SECOND ACT.
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