 | Correggio |  |
53
ACT THE THIRD.
Scene as before.Antonio
(discovered, looking at his picture).
It only wants the varnish now. The veil
Is too transparent yet. Oh, that I might
Withdraw this from the gaze of all the world!
The other picture is not half so good.
It is not surely honest to accept
So large a sum for such inferior work?
But yet his lordship chose it for himself,
And named the price without a word from me.
I told him at the time it was too much.
(takes up his brush.)
Now will I paint a little hyacinth
Into the grass. When lovely maidens die,
Men scatter simple flowers upon their tombs.
My hope, that was so lovely—it is dead.
So then, in tribute of a sad farewell,
I'll plant one flower,—and then—How shall I live,
When I can paint no longer? It has grown
As needful to me now, as life itself.
Well, I will toil the whole long week-days through
For wife and child,—ay, with my hands I'll toil!
But Sunday morning still shall be my own.
Yes, then shall Iris, blooming as of yore,
With her aërial bow of sevenfold hues,
Descend to greet me at the early dawn.
Then will I draw, and colour, and invent
For mine own pastime. Any way it is
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The little pictures. They at least will serve
To decorate the walls. Maria loves them,
So does my little boy; and when I die,
And some stray pilgrim, wandering here, shall see
The rich-hued canvas hanging on the walls,
The sight will touch him;—all are not so hard
As this great Angelo—and he will say,
High aspirations had this man at least,
And loved his art in pure sincerity.
Julio Romano
(enters, but keeps at some distance, contemplating Antonio unobserved).
There sits the Muse's favourite! He paints
Another picture, which will wrap the world
Once more in wonder. How I long to know
A man of powers so noble! Hold awhile!
Let me enjoy my pleasure in long draughts!
Am I awake? Is this not fancy's dream?
I little thought, in coming to Correggio,
That I should find a second Raphael here.
Oh, marvellous! most strange and marvellous!
In our great cities we erect great schools,
Our princes aid ambition, industry,
Our youth is moulded on the choicest models,
From very infancy our hearts are train'd;—
Then comes some glorious opportunity
To exercise the art, so throughly learn'd,
And what do we approve ourselves, we scholars?
Why, scholars,—good, apt scholars certainly,
But genius is not to be foster'd so.
It blooms not in the hothouse;—all the warmth
And nursing care of artificial aid
Develop not the fruit that charms the world.
In the wild wood, untended, it must grow,
A seedling scatter'd by the winds of chance,
Ripening by chance, a forest miracle,
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In hopeless awe on what the Past has left,
And think that Genius is for ever flown,
Lo, there it stands again before our eyes,
And we,—we look, and are again amazed!
Strange, that a Bethlehem so oft gives birth
To the Divine; that the benignant angel,
Who bringeth light and joy into the world,
So oft should find his cradle in a manger!
(Approaches Antonio, and contemplates his work.)
Antonio.
Stand there, thou little azure hyacinth!
Thy violet paleness is the type of death.
Julio
(again retiring, and looking at Antonio).
He wears the aspect of his pictures,—gentle,
Genial, and full of feeling; but that air
Of sadness is a stranger to his works:
The full warm bloom, which glows so richly there,
Spreads not its tints upon his delicate cheek.
Antonio.
Another traveller here! A stranger, too!
(They exchange salutations.)
Julio.
Your pardon, signor, if perchance I now
Disturb you! But I could not leave this place,
Till I had paid my homage to the artist,
Whose genius is its crowning ornament.
Antonio.
Alas! dear God, then will you only know
A man dejected, poor, and sore distraught!
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How! This so glowing sun glad others merely,
And have no warmth nor radiance for itself?
Antonio.
Good sir, your words are kind, you cannot mean
To mock me; but you wound me to the quick,
Although you think it not. A sun!
(Lays his hand on his breast.)
Did you but know
What an abyss is here, how dark, how dark!
Not one poor star to gleam from out my night.
Julio
(with animation).
Nay, from your ‘Night’ a quenchless glory beams,
That with a halo of immortal light
Shall one day crown your head. How are you call'd?
Antonio.
Antonio Allegri is my name.
Julio
(musing.)
Antonio Allegri, of Correggio!
How can that name sound strangely on mine ear,
Which soon shall vibrate far on every tongue?
I have beheld your ‘Night,’ Antonio,
There in the church. You wish'd to represent,
And you have wrought a miracle! The light
Pierces the murky night of earthly life,
And glads the shepherds. Of these shepherds I
Am one. You see me stand before you, still
In wonder lost, and comprehending not
The sight miraculous which now I see,
Holding my hands before mine eyes, in doubt,
If what I look upon be not delusion.
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Alas! 'tis all too much delusion, sir!
Your heart is noble; you are fond of art;
But let me say, without offence, you are
No better judge of it than I myself.
Julio.
You speak in riddles, good Antonio.
Antonio.
For long I've been a riddle to myself.
Julio.
You are a marvel to me every way;
Grown to perfection, with no hand to guide,
Yet to the world so little known the while,
So little knowing, too, your proper worth!
Antonio.
What think you of this picture, may I ask?
Julio.
How poor are words to utter what I feel!
If I say ‘beautiful,’ what have I said?
Till now I deem'd the Raphaelesque Madonna
The one sole peerless mother of our Lord;
I could not picture her in other guise.
Here she is different, quite, quite different,
And yet Maria, too! More the sweet wife,
The mother, than the glorious queen of heaven.
Raphael has raised to heaven what was of earth,
You draw the heavenly downwards from the skies,
To marry with a form of earthly mould.
Antonio.
And do you see no fault, then, in the picture?
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Fault! Where so much has been achieved, there's none.
Who would, 'mid such exuberance of power,
Complain, because perchance not all is there?
Antonio.
And what, what is not there?
Julio.
All that can make
The work a glorious masterpiece is there!
It lives and breathes an atmosphere divine!
Fine in conception, full of pregnant thought,
Handled with patience, sentiment, and fire;
What ask we more?
Antonio.
Your panegyric done,
Now tell me of the faults!
Julio.
Your genius
Has nowhere fail'd. Even where your hand has stray'd,
Where memory's fleeting forms have slipp'd your grasp,
You, by your force, expression, sentiment,
Conception, to the faults have given a charm,
Which is indeed peculiarly your own.
In this, too, you resemble Raphael!
Antonio.
Tell me, good signor, where my hand has stray'd?
You cannot think what happiness you give,
In pointing out my faults.
Julio.
Well then, belike,
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Find some defects of drawing in your picture.
Antonio.
For instance?
Julio.
The foreshortening of this arm
Is not quite accurate. The boy's leg, too,
Is, to my thought, a trifle all too plump,
And wants a firmer outline. You are fond
Of soft and round contours, and thence it comes,
You strive to shun all straight and rigid lines.
Antonio.
Once more, once more, and then I breathe again!
How does it strike you,—the Madonna's smile?
The infant's too?
Julio.
Uncommon, but most lovely.
Antonio.
Not mawkish, simpering, o'ercloy'd with sweetness?
Julio.
So have I seen in dreams the angels smile.
Antonio.
Ah God, and so, too, has it been with me!
Julio
(smiles).
And do you grieve to have succeeded, then?
Antonio.
I grieve, because I've gone so far astray.
Julio.
Again you speak in riddles.
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Oh, signor,
You've voiced the inmost feelings of my soul;
It comforts me to think that there be men,
Besides myself,—sound-hearted, thoughtful men,
Who in the self-same wise can go astray!
What more surprises me, is the true judgment
You have pronounced on my deficiencies.
Therein you err not; you have only shaped it
In mild and kindly terms; and, sooth to say,
Your words, so just, so sensible, had brought
Unbounded joy, but that I knew too well,—
Alas! I've only lately come to know it—
That all I do is valueless and vain.
Julio.
Who can have told you that?
Antonio.
The greatest artist
Of this our time, it may be, of all times.
Julio.
How! Michael Angelo!
Antonio.
'Twas even he!
Julio.
I guess'd as much; that broken wheel, I see,
Within his brain is spinning madly still.
Antonio.
I knew not who he was, and thoughtlessly
Offended him. The owner of that house,
A strange, mad knave, who bears me no good will,
Came up and told me, that his guest, who sat
At yonder table, drinking, was a dyer,—
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One who knew nothing, yet would dogmatise
On all things. So I own, I met him not
With that respect which is his righteous due.
He spoke to me in caustic surly tone,
And I made answer to him scoffingly,
Whereon he grew incensed, and called me ‘bungler!’
Abject and base, and said, though I might have
An eye for colour, and its gaudy hues,
I never should be able to achieve
True beauty and true grandeur.
Julio
(with animation).
There he is right!
Achieve you never will—you have achieved,
Ay, even beyond the Sistine chapel's self.
Antonio
(makes a deprecating gesture with his hand).
Ah, dear signor!
Julio.
I see you think I speak
As blind men speak of colours. 'Tis not so.
I am no Angelo, no Michael I,
But a mere mortal man, yet I'm a Roman;
No Cæsar truly, yet a Julius.
I too have learn'd to know what painting is.
The mighty Raphael Sanzio was my master,
His lofty spirit hovers o'er me still,
And I on such a theme may claim to speak.
Antonio.
O heavens! you, you are Julio Romano?
Julio.
I am.
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You Julio Romano! Can it be?
The famous painter? Raphael's favourite?
Julio.
I was so.
Antonio.
And you tell me, I am no bungler?
Julio.
I tell you, that since Raphael parted hence,
Our country has no greater painter known
Than you, Antonio Allegri of Correggio!
Antonio
(sits down).
Your pardon, gentle signor! My brain reels!
Your words have stunn'd me with a wild surprise,
And in the maze I cannot see my way.
All my existence, like an unknown brook,
Has flow'd along in shadow until now.
As little did I dream I could be great,
As that my powers were bent on hopeless aims.
All simply trusting to the Muse and fate,
I went on painting, and my labour throve.
Now—in the course of one brief day—have two
Of art's most famous masters sought my home.
One strikes me down into the nether dust,
The other lifts me up beyond the clouds.
What shall I think? Is this a dream, or no?
Julio.
And if that one should say, as I have said,
What then?
Antonio.
How! Michael Angelo? Think you,
That he would ever—
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'Tis his way to do
What no one dreams of. His impetuous spirit
Is less of God than Titan, and his greatness
Resembles that of the primeval world.
Grace is not in his nature. The younger Amor
Fires not his heart for individual objects,
But the old Eros in his bosom folds
The universe with arms of giant grasp;
No winged urchin, but a youth full grown,
All life and vigour. I will speak to him.
Rest thee at ease; I understand his ways;
The Titan has a human heart. Like Chronos,
His children still are of majestic growth,
But there is nought of cannibal in him.
He rather, like Prometheus, snatcheth fire
From heaven, to animate earth's common clay.
Let but the storm blow o'er, Antonio,
And he too will do justice to your work.
I see him coming. Go into the house.
Antonio.
I know not what to think, or what believe.
[Exit.
Michael
(enters).
Now we may start.
Julio.
Alas! not yet, my friend;
A greater carriage wheel is broken now,
That must be mended ere we stir a foot.
Michael.
What do you mean by that?
Julio.
Just what I say.
You've not forgot the pretty water-mill,
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If I err not, the model for that mill
Was by yourself improved in Florence once.
Michael.
A goodly work!
Julio.
Now listen, and be wroth!
A man of rank, for lack of else to do,
Stopp'd, just as we did, to inspect the mill,
And for his sport would have it set to work.
But as the miller was not cap in hand,
Our noble's haughty blood boils up amain,
And with his sword he hacks and hews the works,
Just where the maker's cunning hand had link'd
The cogs and rivets with the nicest skill.
This done, he mounts his horse, and rides away.
The mill is stopp'd, the miller in despair.
Michael.
This miller must be righted. I will have
One of our carriage horses saddled straight,
And down to see him! He must have amends.
Could I but light on that same churl, full soon
I'd clip the wings of his high mightiness!
Julio.
'Twere well indeed, methinks, if you could clip
The haughty wings of overbearing pride.
Michael.
What do you mean?
Julio.
You're fond of poetry,
Have written sonnets, fashioned rhymes yourself.
Forgive me, then, for thus addressing you
In allegoric phrase; the naked truth
Is almost too unpleasant.
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I love the nude;
Garments are nothing but the veils to beauty.
No beating round the bush, sir, if you please.
Julio.
You need but to apply a larger scale
To all that I have told you, and you have
The plain unvarnished truth. The pretty mill
Is human nature, and the noble's pride
Is artist's pride; the sword a cutting word,
The shatter'd wheels, a heart stabb'd to the core.
Michael.
Aha!
Julio.
You see, we need no horses here.
Without their aid you can at once assist,
Nay more, chastise, if so you have a mind;
The culprit is in reach of punishment.
Michael
(gravely and haughtily).
It well beseems you, sir, to hold to me
This language.
Julio.
Buonarotti, wherefore force me
To use it, then? How! Think you, I forget
The reverence which I owe your genius,
Your master-hand? No, 'tis that very reverence
Constrains me thus to parley with you; for
'Tis not one kind of master-skill, or genius,
I prize, but all, that to one lofty aim
Work in accord with impulses divine,—
Howe'er obscure, or poor in worldly wealth,—
Well knowing, that the glorious tree of life,
Which we in common phrase call genius, grows
Much oftener on the bare and arid rock,
Than in the rich and cultivated vale.
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Ho! You should be a rhetorician, sir!
Julio.
I read full well the meaning of that taunt,
Yet does it gall me not. The artist's words,
You think, are, like the hero's, works and deeds.
There you are right! Nor need I now repeat,
How often, Angelo, my heart has bent
In reverential wonderment before
Your lofty godlike instinct, and mute wisdom.
Yet man is not an artist, and no more,
But man as well. To show the beauteous traits
Of sweet humanity is likewise art.
Yours is a spirit strong, and rich in act;
Most frankly do I own it; well, be just,
And mock me not, if you discern in me
A man of homely sense, nor lacking quite
Those higher gifts that issue from the gods.
I wish no honey'd speeches from you now;
Your act it was, which set my tongue at large,
Your act has equal power to fetter it.
Michael.
Well, sir, what would you?
Julio.
Look you, Buonarotti,
You've wounded to the quick this worthy painter,
By calling him a bungler. Is he a bungler?
Michael.
Why, what a plague care I, sir, what he is?
Julio.
And do you care for art no longer, then?
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Let every man look to his own concerns.
I do, and there an end! Small matter 'tis
To me, what others choose to say of me;
If he's no bungler, why, 'tis well for him.
He is a saucy varlet, that I know.
Julio.
He is a good, kind-hearted, worthy man.
This vintner is his foe, and led him wrong
By telling him, you were a dyer,—yea,
A supercilious conceited fellow,
Prating of all things, and informed of none.
He wish'd to raise your spleen 'gainst this poor man,
Because he hates him.
Michael.
Spake the rascal so?
Julio.
Now then, you see, Antonio's not to blame!
He did not know you.
Michael.
Courtesy is due
To strangers, as to friends.
Julio.
And did you show it?
(Michael is silent.)
But one word more, my friend, and I have done!
What we have both so unexpectedly
Beheld this morning must—how could it else?—
Have filled you with surprise no less than me.
You are no purblind dullard, that in wood
Carves pretty playthings, with no eyes to mark
What others do. With you, friend, art is science;
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Therefore you know as well as I, and better,
How great an artist this poor hamlet boasts.
You have seen many of his pieces there
(pointing to the inn)
In the saloon; his Leda, Danaë.
Not in Madonnas merely lies his skill.
In Parma he has painted, as I learn,
Some frescoes full of poetry and power.
Go to the church there, see his ‘Night,’ and then
If his deserts appear not to your soul
As bright as day, why, day will dawn no more.
Michael.
The man has talent, and I told him so.
Julio.
Talent! A sorry phrase; an alms we use
To fling to every beggar; is talent all
You can discover in this masterpiece?
Michael.
The work has gross defects.
Julio.
Defects it has,
Because 'tis human. What has not defects?
Think you that you have never failed—that you
Are perfect? Is mere drawing, think you, all
That makes a painter? What is it at best?
An adjunct needful to a higher end,
But still an adjunct merely. Simple outlines
Are never found in nature; they but serve
To mark the space where body terminates.
Body itself, and colouring, and life,
With light and shade,—painting consists in these.
To blend with beauty thought, expression—this
Is genius, and are these awanting here?
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The picture has no grandeur, none, of style.
Julio.
What do you mean by grandeur? For myself
I call deep truth, and high-toned beauty, grand.
Your works have shown us that corporeal grandeur
With spiritual grandeur may combine.
But grand conceptions do not need expanse
Of space or body, to deserve the name.
In all your works a daring nigh sublime,
Powers of vast scope, and noble purpose breathe.
Yet man is man, and ne'er will be a god.
As man, befits him bear a child-like heart
And lowly spirit; and I will confess,
Though 'tis most certain that your bold large style,—
Perchance some natural inclination also,—
Have driven me, Julio, too, the lesser planet,
Out of my gentle Raphaelitish course,
Some little towards the violent and severe,
Yet a good genial heart, which seeks expression
In art's pure forms, is, and will always be,
What most in art, even as in life, I prize;
And where I recognise its presence, there
The angel of the conscience is reveal'd, and points
With lily stem the pathway to my home.
Michael.
So feel not I!
Julio.
Your feelings take a range
Of vaster circuit. Yet the softer feelings
Come o'er you oftener than even you believe.
See your Madonna in St. Peter's, how
She sits the type of tenderness divine,
Stone though she be, her dead Son in her lap!
With human-hearted deep humility
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Life and his soul from the Almighty's hand.
By heaven, there's nothing in man's heart or brain,
But hath at some time throbb'd and wrought in yours.
Your manner's hard; yet is your ruggedness
Only a noble, and time-hallowed rust,
And under it the solid metal shines.
Forgive me, if my words, as is most like,
Have given you umbrage; well I feel that all
Which I have said, you better know yourself.
I only spoke, the sooner to dispel
The tempest here; and sooner to relieve
This poor man of his trouble; for your words
Have quite bereft him of his cheerfulness
And self-possession; and your words alone
Have power to give them back to him again.
Michael.
Hm!
Battista
(entering).
The carriage is quite ready, sirs! I wait
But your command to put the horses to.
Michael.
My Julio, will you see to this? I have
A word to speak with this same worthy man.
Julio.
Oh, certainly!
[Exit.
Michael.
What was it that you said
About me to this painter—eh—to-day?
Battista.
I say of you! What does your honour mean?
Michael.
Your worship said I was a dyer, eh?
A coarse-tongued, haughty, self-conceited fellow?
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Sir, may eternal justice punish me
From now till doomsday, if I—
Michael.
Hold your peace!
Eternal justice gives itself but small
Concern about such rascals as yourself;
Best have a care that temporal justice, sir,
O'ertake you not! Birds for the gallows ripe
Are sure to be tuck'd up. Canst construe that?
Battista.
Your honour is—
Michael.
A dyer, coarse in grain!
(takes a whip from the table).
Well, for coarse colours we coarse brushes use.
What would you say, now, should I paint your shoulders
All over crimson, friend, or say, dark blue?
Battista.
God be my stay!
Michael.
Then he'll have work to do.
Your wretched soul, your base and abject nature,
These are your stay! I will not soil my fingers.
Yet were it best you rid me of your presence,
And quickly too, for this divining rod,
Here in my hand, hath an amazing sting,
And would be charmed to come upon the trace
Of hidden fountains on your lusty shoulders.
Battista.
Great sir, 'tis all mistake,—it is, indeed!
[Exit.
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No doubt, but get ye gone, sir! How! The knave
Has chafed me! Ha! now I can comprehend
How 'twas the painter here, unhappy devil—
(sits down before the picture.)
A work like this is not read at a glance.
No matter what they show me in the whirl
And turmoil of my rage—my blood boils up
Before my eyes as well as in mine ears.
Then your didactic prating nettles me.
What I should think, I can myself find out;
And Julio—he—as though I could not, I—
Well, well,—he felt this, though, himself! By Jove,
The picture's finely handled! This is painting!
And how poetical,—trees, landscape, flowers!
What lovely drapery! This reflected light!
The woman's charming, yes, by heaven, she is!
The John, too, exquisite, the little Christ
Sublimely fair. Per Bacco, this is colour!
And I,—although the Pope would make me paint,
Although I chased the scurvy Florentines,
Like those that vended doves, from out the temple,
And climbed myself into the scaffolding,
And worked some half-year in such surly mood,
That I had all but killed his Holiness,
By flinging down a pail, because he came
Prying so early to my studio,—
I am no painter, no, not I,—I know it.
I am a sculptor. What of sculpture's art
In painting can be used, why, that is mine!
In drawing and design I stand alone,
But as for dipping in the paint-pot, zounds
I understand it not, that's very clear,
And this man does, and that most thoroughly.
(Enter Giovanni from the house; seeing a stranger, he stops.)
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Come hither, little one!
(Giovanni advances.)
A handsome child!
He is not downcast at the sight of strangers;
No shyness here! Come hither, little fellow!
(Giovanni goes up to him.)
How now? Yes, surely, this is the Giovanni
Of yonder picture.
Giovanni.
Yes, I am Giovanni;
My father painted me.
Michael.
So, so! Thou art
A son, then, of Antonio's?
Giovanni.
Yes, my mother
Is also there.
Michael.
Where?
Giovanni.
There she sits!
Michael.
Aha!
Giovanni.
There is the little Jesus child; but him
We have not in our home.
Michael.
No? Where is he?
Giovanni
(pointing upwards).
Up yonder! He is yonder in the sky.
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Up yonder?
Giovanni.
Yes, he sits there in the clouds,
With other little angel-boys.
Michael.
Indeed!
And what do they do there?
Giovanni.
They play together.
Michael
(kisses him).
Dear child! Come, sit down here upon my knee,
Here, on my lap!
Giovanni.
I'll ride upon your knee.
You are my pony. Now I'll ride away
To Parma.
Michael.
Very good! But I must lift you,
My little friend, for you've no stirrups. Eh?
Giovanni.
No more I have. The cutler's making them.
Michael.
So, so?
Giovanni
(riding).
Sa, sa! Hup, hup, hup! Get along!
The pony must trot on, and never stop.
Michael.
Good, good! Have we not come to Parma yet?
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Not yet! Not yet! But we are half way there.
Michael.
Now we dismount, and enter the hotel
To get refreshment.
Giovanni.
Yes, to get refreshment.
(Michael feels in his pockets.)
What have you in your pocket?
Michael.
Wait a bit!
(Aside)
These comfits were for Master Martin's children;
But they must wait. Besides, in Modena,
I can buy something else for them.
(Takes out a comfit.)
Look here!
Do you like sugar-plums, my little friend?
Giovanni
(snatching at them).
Oh, I'm so fond of sugar-plums!
Michael.
Stay, stay!
But may you eat them?
Giovanni.
Oh yes, that I may!
Michael.
There, then!
(Giovanni begins to eat.)
But you must eat them in my lap!
Giovanni
(getting away from him).
No, I must eat in the hotel, I must,
Whilst my horse rests.
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And chews a little oats;
Shall I not have some oats?
Giovanni.
Come, pony, come,
Here are some oats for you!
(puts a comfit into Michael's mouth.)
Michael
(seizes him.)
You little rogue!
Call me a pony? Well, 'tis God's chastisement.
I called thy father bungler, so I did,
And by the eternal Muses on Olympus,
He is as little that, as I a pony!
[Enter Maria.
Giovanni.
Here comes my mother
Michael.
That thy mother, boy?
A lovely woman, very like the Mary.
(Places the boy on the ground, and rises.)
Giovanni.
Oh mother, here's a stranger gentleman;
And he has given me sugar-plums. Look here!
Michael.
Madonna, may I hope for your forgiveness?
Maria.
Oh noble sir, I thank you for your kindness.
Hast thank'd the gentleman?
(To Giovanni.)
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I thank you, sir!
Maria.
You forward boy, where are your manners, sir?
Michael.
Let him alone, dear madam, do not mar
With the distortions of our o'er-nice age
His nature's pure unwarp'd simplicity.
Maria.
You're fond of little ones?
Michael.
Because they are
So great. You live here?
Maria.
Yes, this is our cottage.
Michael.
Antonio, the painter, is your husband?
Maria.
He is, signor.
Michael.
If in his life he be
As truly good, as in his works he shows,
Then you indeed must be a happy wife.
Maria.
Signor, his art is but a pale reflex
Of the bright sun within.
Michael.
Indeed?
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Indeed.
Michael.
And yet you seem unhappy, out of spirits.
A worthy active man, a handsome wife,
A darling child—here is a paradise
Of bliss domestic, perfect and complete.
Maria.
Yet lacks there something for that perfect bliss.
Michael.
And that is?
Maria.
Worldly fortune.
Michael.
Are not, then,
Beauty and genius in themselves a fortune?
Maria.
In many a floweret lurks the canker worm!
My husband has been ill; he's sensitive;
Impressions, slight ones, move him to the quick.
This very day he had a heavy blow.
Michael.
I know what happened. Michael Angelo
Was here, and dropped some irritating words.
Maria.
He wounded him most deeply.
Michael.
But, perchance,
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He told him, he would never be a painter.
Who is to say but Angelo was right?
He ought to know, if anybody should.
Maria.
No! though an angel were to come from heaven
And tell me so, I'd not believe him!
Michael.
How!
Are you so confident in your opinion?
Maria.
Of this at least I am most confident,
That in my soul I love Antonio;
His works are from himself inseparable,
So in my soul I love his glorious art.
Michael.
And that suffices you? You love, nor care
To sound the principles your love is based on?
Maria.
You men may sound and judge by principle,
But only to a point; for you, like us,
Must often trust to simple feeling too.
Michael.
Bravo, Madonna! This is what I like.
Forgive me for thus putting you to proof;
So fits it wives should think. But touching, now,
This Michael Angelo,—he is a rough
Strange fellow, that is not to be denied;
Yet trust me, not so heartless in the main!
His words are oft the clanking of the Cyclops,
When the fire roars too fiercely;—yet he can
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Of feeling and of thought, on which to draw
For many a future day; just as the camel
Drinks deeply of the spring for after-need
Along the burning desert. The volcano
Is dread, yet fertile too. Its wrath once spent,
Men throng in shoals to build along its brink;
The seed shoots up anon to swelling grain;
The chasm puts on a robe of shrubs and flowers,
And all is redolent of life and joy.
Maria.
I do believe you, sir.
Michael.
The merest trifles
Are oft the antecedents of great deeds.
The mountain sometimes doth bring forth a mouse;
But mice have often brought forth mountains too.
Then marvel not, if a most scurvy trick
Of yon malicious hosteler have set
Friend Angelo at variance with your husband.
One hasty word begets another straight.
It is not only love, you know, that wears
A bandage on his eyes,—wrath does the same.
Maria.
You speak most sagely and most kindly, sir.
Michael.
The Buonarotti sent me here—I am
His friend,—that I might tell you this from him;
And as a proof, in what regard he holds
Antonio, offers him this ring,
(takes a ring from his finger.)
And begs,
He'll wear it henceforth as a pledge of friendship.
They'll meet in person at some future day;
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To know that Buonarotti means him well,
And has been zealous to advance his fortunes.
[Exit.
Antonio
(who has come out of the cottage, but has remained in the background.)
Maria, love, what did he say to thee?
Maria.
The stranger?
Antonio.
Yes, he, Michael Angelo!
Maria.
Great heaven, Antonio! Is it possible?
Michael himself?
Antonio.
Yes, yes! Himself, himself!
There is but one such man in all the world.
Maria.
Oh, blessed chance! Rejoice, Antonio!
He fondled our dear boy, and to myself
Spoke with respectful kindness. See, this ring
He sent thee as a gift. He prizes, loves thee,
And, noble heart! will make our weal his care.
Antonio.
Oh, my Maria, and can this be so?
Julio was right!
Maria.
He values, honours thee!
Antonio.
This ring, too! Oh ye heavens! Come, come, Maria!
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My after rise more great and glorious.
Oh! heavens, dare I, dare I believe it real?
Come, I will thank him with these brimming eyes,
Close to my bosom press him, and be blest!
Maria.
Yes, he is right, great Buonarotti's right;
Now blooms for us a paradise of bliss.
[Exeunt into the hotel.
Battista
(comes forward, looks after him, and, after a pause, says)—
I'll make this paradise of yours complete;
There is no paradise without its snake!
END OF ACT THIRD.
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