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83
ACT THE FOURTH.
A large Picture Gallery in Parma.Ottavio, Battista, with books of accounts.
Ottavio.
I'm satisfied, your bills are all correct.
Battista.
A letter, signor, I have just received.
'Tis from my son; he writes to me from Florence;
Perhaps he will be here this afternoon.
Ottavio.
Ah, that is well; and look you, not a word
Of what I said to you of Nicolo!
Battista.
By heavens, it takes my breath away, to think
That he, a bandit of the Apennines,
Should dare take service in your lordship's house,
To lie in wait the better for his prey!
Ottavio.
I've cause to think, the trick is nothing new.
Your thievish villains boldly ply their game,
Both in the wood 'twixt Reggio and Parma,
And wheresoever else there's aught to steal.
But fair and soft; one bird is in the net,
And soon his mates shall keep him company.
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The things we live to see! Lord, lord, what men
Be in the world!
Ottavio.
Enough of this! And now,
To speak of matter which concerns me more.
Antonio the painter comes to-day?
Battista.
He's on the road, and will be here anon.
Ottavio.
Oh that the fair Maria came with him!
Battista.
She'll not be long behind him, Eccellenza!
Strew but your peas, and pigeons flock apace.
But one thing strikes me as embarrassing,
So please my gracious lord to let me speak—
Ottavio.
Proceed! proceed!
Battista.
Your Grace is on the eve
Of entering into matrimonial bonds.
The lovely Celestina will be here
From Florence with her father presently;—
How will that suit?
Ottavio.
Let this not trouble you!
The lovely Celestina, like her name,
Is heavenly! Now, though as a Christian soul,
I love what's heavenly, and most dearly prize it,
Yet being also flesh and blood, the things
Of earth have also charms for me. The lady
Beams on me like a chilly winter's sun;
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'Tis doubtful if she'll have me; if she does,
'Tis purely from the love she bears her father,
Who's bent on the alliance; me she loves not.
Battista.
Nay, love will come in time.
Ottavio.
Perhaps it may;
As likely not. I beg no woman's love.
I know her worth: she's rich and beautiful;
Not one of our young Florentine noblesse,
But would esteem it as his dearest pride,
To gain possession of the lady's hand.
I'd have her for my wife; it flatters me,
To be the lord of that which all would win.
The heart, though, has emotions, rights as well,
Which will be heard, and Celestina here
Must bend before the lowly artist's wife.
Battista.
Yet, my good lord, two women in one house,
How will that work?
Ottavio.
Oh, rarely! Celestina
Is young, enthusiastic, unsuspecting,
Maria silent, unexacting, meek.
I am uneasy on one point alone,—
Antonio's staying in my house to paint.
The lady is an adept in the art,
And paints with skill. Now with such matters I
Am little conversant; Geronimo, my uncle,
Bequeathed these pictures to me as his heir.
I value them as other furniture,
Nor less, nor more. Now, look you! should it prove
Antonio is no artist, where am I?
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For I would wish in any case to pass
In her opinion for a connoisseur.
Battista.
That is an awkward business, certainly,
For, good my lord, he is a sorry knave;
My word upon't, a dauber!
Ottavio.
What know you
About such things? You bear the man a grudge.
No more!
Battista.
Well, time will show. Ha! there he is,
Crossing the garden!
Ottavio.
Say you so?
Battista.
'Tis he.
How he stands gazing at the flower plots there,
Like any strolling pedlar, with his picture
Slung on his back! He stoops, and smells the flowers.
I shouldn't wonder if he dared to pluck;
I'll tackle him, if he does.
Ottavio.
Let him alone!
I'll step aside. The palace, the great rooms,
The furniture, the servants, may impress
His lively fancy; men of such a stamp
Are caught more readily by outward show,
Than we are apt to think. Anon I'll come.
This very day I must propose my terms.
Battista.
Were it not better, at some pliant hour—
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The thing I cannot buy, I will not steal.
[Exit.
Battista
(alone).
Thou wilt not steal? Then I will do so for thee.
I will have vengeance, bloody vengeance, too,
As surely as I am a Calabrese!
The whipthong of that Michael Angelo,
Though threatened merely, burns into my back,
In ruddy welts. It has revived my hate,
And my hot-coursing blood will never cool,
Till his that brought this shame on me shall flow!
(muses.)
So Nicolo was a bandit, and is still.
Good! Then at least he knows the way to—Hush!
No poet I, 'tis not for me to rhyme.
[Exit.
Antonio
(enters, carrying his picture on his back.)
Arrived at last! Good heavens, how tired I am!
(Puts his picture down, takes a chair, and sits.)
It was so hot, the road so long, the sun
So scorching! Ha! the air's refreshing here.
Ah me, how happy are earth's great ones! They
May dwell in these cool palaces of stone,
That hold, like excavated rocks, at bay
The fury of the sunbeams. Freely rise
The vaulted roofs, broad pillars cast a shade;
Fresh bubbling springs plash in the vestibules,
And cool both air and walls. Heavens! who would not
Be lodged like this! Well, so shall I be soon.
How smoothly and how pleasantly one mounts
Along the broad, cold marble staircases!
Antiques in every niche,—fine busts, that look
Serenely down with a majestic calm.
(casts a look round the room.)
This hall, too, is right noble in its style.
Ha! what is this I see? With paintings fill'd?
It is the picture gallery. Oh! blessed Virgin,
I'm in a temple, and I knew it not!
Here hang the glorious trophies of your art,
Italia's painters!—will for ages hang,
As rich-emblazon'd scutcheons o'er the tombs
Of heroes dead, to witness of their deeds.
Oh, all ye saints, which shall I first peruse?
Landscapes, and animals, heroes, and Madonnas!
Mine eye flits round, as does a bee amidst
An hundred different flowers. Alas! I see,
For too much seeing, nought. I only feel
Art's fresh and noble presence move me deeply.
Oh, I were fain to bow me down, and weep
Within this temple of my ancestors!
Look there! That picture's beautiful! Yet no,
'Tis not so fine as first I thought it. Well,
They cannot all be choice. What have we here?
No, that's too merely pretty. In my life
I ne'er saw anything like this before;
An aged woman, furbishing a pot,
Within her kitchen; in the corner, see!
A cat asleep, and, near, a white-hair'd boy
Is blowing bubbles through a tobacco pipe.
It never struck me until now, that one
Could make a picture out of things like these;
And yet this kitchen now, it looks so trim,
So bright and clean, 'tis quite a treat to see!
How finely the sun strikes through the green leaves,
In at the window, on the brazen pot!
Who was it painted this? Is that the name
Beneath the picture? (Reads)
Flemish, hm! Unknown!
Flemish? What country can that be, I wonder?
Can it be far from Milan? Oh, look there,
At these large pictures! Tables strewed with flowers,
With glasses partly fill'd, and lemons peel'd,
And dogs, and little birds. (Starts)
What have we here?
Why this is exquisite! Ha, ha, ha, ha!
Four greedy greybeards counting o'er their gold!
But what comes next? It is our Saviour's birth.
I know it well, Master Mantegna's work!
How sweetly winds the mountain pathway here;
How fine the three kings bending there before
Child Jesus, and the eternal queen of heaven!
Here is another picture, much the same,
A little quaint, but very nicely felt.
The ox on the Madonna's shoulder lays
His snout, and peers with curious wonder down;
The Moor grins kindly too,—his heart is touch'd.
The small Bambino in the casket gropes,
To find a plaything there. By Albert Durer.
He was a German, that I know. One sees,
There be good worthy men behind the mountains,
True painters, too. Heavens, what a glorious picture!
A princely dame, young, blooming, full of soul;
How the eye burns, how smiles the little mouth!
How nobly on her sits the rose-hued hat
Of velvet, and the full deep velvet sleeves!
By Leonard' da Vinci. Well might he
Be called Magician;—this indeed is painting!
The next there is a king, which seems to me
Touch'd in the self-same style; perhaps it is
By Leonardo too; he painted it,
When he was young, most probably. (Reads)
By Holbein.
I know him not. I know you there, old friends!
How farest thou, worthy Perugino, with
Thy soft green tone, thy figures ranged to match
On either side, thy still repeated thoughts,
And thy unfailing Saint Sebastian!
Still thou'rt a glorious fellow! Though, perchance,
Some more invention had not been amiss.
(Puts his picture down, takes a chair, and sits.)
It was so hot, the road so long, the sun
So scorching! Ha! the air's refreshing here.
Ah me, how happy are earth's great ones! They
May dwell in these cool palaces of stone,
That hold, like excavated rocks, at bay
The fury of the sunbeams. Freely rise
The vaulted roofs, broad pillars cast a shade;
Fresh bubbling springs plash in the vestibules,
And cool both air and walls. Heavens! who would not
Be lodged like this! Well, so shall I be soon.
How smoothly and how pleasantly one mounts
Along the broad, cold marble staircases!
Antiques in every niche,—fine busts, that look
Serenely down with a majestic calm.
(casts a look round the room.)
88
Ha! what is this I see? With paintings fill'd?
It is the picture gallery. Oh! blessed Virgin,
I'm in a temple, and I knew it not!
Here hang the glorious trophies of your art,
Italia's painters!—will for ages hang,
As rich-emblazon'd scutcheons o'er the tombs
Of heroes dead, to witness of their deeds.
Oh, all ye saints, which shall I first peruse?
Landscapes, and animals, heroes, and Madonnas!
Mine eye flits round, as does a bee amidst
An hundred different flowers. Alas! I see,
For too much seeing, nought. I only feel
Art's fresh and noble presence move me deeply.
Oh, I were fain to bow me down, and weep
Within this temple of my ancestors!
Look there! That picture's beautiful! Yet no,
'Tis not so fine as first I thought it. Well,
They cannot all be choice. What have we here?
No, that's too merely pretty. In my life
I ne'er saw anything like this before;
An aged woman, furbishing a pot,
Within her kitchen; in the corner, see!
A cat asleep, and, near, a white-hair'd boy
Is blowing bubbles through a tobacco pipe.
It never struck me until now, that one
Could make a picture out of things like these;
And yet this kitchen now, it looks so trim,
So bright and clean, 'tis quite a treat to see!
How finely the sun strikes through the green leaves,
In at the window, on the brazen pot!
Who was it painted this? Is that the name
Beneath the picture? (Reads)
Flemish, hm! Unknown!
Flemish? What country can that be, I wonder?
Can it be far from Milan? Oh, look there,
At these large pictures! Tables strewed with flowers,
With glasses partly fill'd, and lemons peel'd,
And dogs, and little birds. (Starts)
What have we here?
89
Four greedy greybeards counting o'er their gold!
But what comes next? It is our Saviour's birth.
I know it well, Master Mantegna's work!
How sweetly winds the mountain pathway here;
How fine the three kings bending there before
Child Jesus, and the eternal queen of heaven!
Here is another picture, much the same,
A little quaint, but very nicely felt.
The ox on the Madonna's shoulder lays
His snout, and peers with curious wonder down;
The Moor grins kindly too,—his heart is touch'd.
The small Bambino in the casket gropes,
To find a plaything there. By Albert Durer.
He was a German, that I know. One sees,
There be good worthy men behind the mountains,
True painters, too. Heavens, what a glorious picture!
A princely dame, young, blooming, full of soul;
How the eye burns, how smiles the little mouth!
How nobly on her sits the rose-hued hat
Of velvet, and the full deep velvet sleeves!
By Leonard' da Vinci. Well might he
Be called Magician;—this indeed is painting!
The next there is a king, which seems to me
Touch'd in the self-same style; perhaps it is
By Leonardo too; he painted it,
When he was young, most probably. (Reads)
By Holbein.
I know him not. I know you there, old friends!
How farest thou, worthy Perugino, with
Thy soft green tone, thy figures ranged to match
On either side, thy still repeated thoughts,
And thy unfailing Saint Sebastian!
Still thou'rt a glorious fellow! Though, perchance,
Some more invention had not been amiss.
There are the mighty thronèd; yonder hangs
A powerful picture, the full size of life.
A noble greybeard! 'Tis the holy Job.
Grandly conceived, and executed grandly!
That surely is by Raphael. (Reads)
No. By—Fra
Bartolomeo. Ah, the pious monk!
It is not every monk can work like this.
A powerful picture, the full size of life.
A noble greybeard! 'Tis the holy Job.
90
That surely is by Raphael. (Reads)
No. By—Fra
Bartolomeo. Ah, the pious monk!
It is not every monk can work like this.
Who could find time to look at all that's here?
There at the end a silken curtain hangs;
No doubt behind it is the best of all.
I must see this before Ottavio comes.
(draws back the curtain, and discloses Raphael's Saint Cecilia.)
This is the Saint Cecilia! There she stands,
And in her down-droop'd hand the organ bears.
Scatter'd and broken at her feet are cast
Mere worldly instruments; but even the organ
Drops silenced with her hand, as in the clouds
She hears the seraphs quiring. Her eye soars!
By whom is this? It is not painting; no,
'Tis poetry—yes, poetry! As thus I gaze,
And gaze, I see not the great artist merely,
But also the great man!
Here is sublime, celestial poesy,
Express'd in colours. Such, too, is my aim,
The goal I strive in my best hours to reach.
(Enter Ottavio. Antonio, without saluting him, and wholly absorbed in the picture, asks him)
This picture, whose is it?
There at the end a silken curtain hangs;
No doubt behind it is the best of all.
I must see this before Ottavio comes.
(draws back the curtain, and discloses Raphael's Saint Cecilia.)
This is the Saint Cecilia! There she stands,
And in her down-droop'd hand the organ bears.
Scatter'd and broken at her feet are cast
Mere worldly instruments; but even the organ
Drops silenced with her hand, as in the clouds
She hears the seraphs quiring. Her eye soars!
By whom is this? It is not painting; no,
'Tis poetry—yes, poetry! As thus I gaze,
And gaze, I see not the great artist merely,
But also the great man!
Here is sublime, celestial poesy,
Express'd in colours. Such, too, is my aim,
The goal I strive in my best hours to reach.
(Enter Ottavio. Antonio, without saluting him, and wholly absorbed in the picture, asks him)
This picture, whose is it?
Ottavio
(coldly).
'Tis Raphael's.
Antonio
(with joyful enthusiasm).
Ha, then I am a painter too!
Ottavio.
I've known that, friend,
For some few weeks, you must for years have known it.
91
I know it now, but knew it not before.
Ottavio
(aside).
The vain, conceited fool! Battista's right.
Well, well, so much the better! (Aloud)
Good Antonio,
I like to see this hearty confidence.
You differ from all other artists quite,
Who've stood before this picture, self-convinced
Of their own utter insignificance.
Antonio
(who has never taken his eye from the picture).
Yes, I can see: if poverty feel not
Its emptiness before such wealth as this,
Then it will never feel it.
Ottavio
(aside).
Why, this man
Is utterly transform'd. (Aloud.)
You, on the contrary,
Of your own riches seem the more assured.
Antonio.
Yes, here I feel my powers in all their force!
Here do I feel I am a painter too.
Here do I see the emotions of my heart,
And the conceptions of my inmost soul
Express'd, as I have felt them in the best
And happiest moments of my youthful years;
To give them shape, was mostly past my power.
I have a heart can feel like Raphael's; but
My soul is not so clear, so strong of grasp;
My hand is more expert, more plastic, yet
His brain is stouter, takes a wider range.
I smile, while Raphael is grave; I am
92
Heavens! what a picture! Here I learn to know
Myself in all my weakness and my strength;
Here is the standard; it exalts me high,
For, standing here, I feel anigh to heaven,
But still, as feels a man to angels near!
And whilst my bosom swells with rapt delight
And exultation, lowly bends my head
Before the grandeur I can ne'er attain.
Ottavio
(coldly).
You've brought with you that picture of your own?
Antonio
(collecting himself).
It stands there in the corner, good my lord!
Ottavio.
Pray, bring it forward.
(Antonio brings forward the picture).
Excellent, i'faith!
That charming woman seems as though she lived.
Still, to be frank with you, I do not like
This drapery. Tell me, wherefore did you not
Portray her simply, as in life she is?
By heav'n, Maria can't be made more fair.
Antonio.
My object was to paint, sir, the Madonna.
Ottavio.
And is Maria not your Donna, then?
Antonio.
Your pardon, sir, I understand you not.
Ottavio.
Nay, now, I know full well, you artists live
93
Loving air-phantoms more, and lovely dreams,
Than things that truly live and breathe around you.
Now 'tis not so with me, the very least;
And all must follow as their bent inclines.
No artist I, nor poet; I am content
With plain reality. This being so,
We two can live together charmingly.
The one need never cross the other's path.
You love the fair ideal, I the fact.
Antonio.
Your pardon, sir, I understand you not;
What do you mean by this?
Ottavio.
My dear Antonio,
I will deal honestly and frankly by you.
You are a plain, blunt man, and understand not
What we of courtly breeding call finesse.
Look you, my good Antonio, you are poor;
I grieve to see you pining day by day;
You paint fine pictures, and remain unknown.
What profits it how bright your candle burns,
If hid beneath a bushel? 'Tis my wish
To make you happy. My palazzo's large,
Our richest nobles daily flock to it.
You shall stay here, and paint, and live at ease.
Antonio.
My gracious lord, is this no idle dream?
Does fate begin to smile on me at last?
From my first boyhood, like a Will-o'-the-Wisp,
It still has flitted near me but to mock me.
When I essay'd to grasp it, it was gone!
And there I stood in darkness as before.
Ottavio.
Your troubles shall be ended; by the Saints,
94
A fellow-creature happy, when we can.
Antonio.
You think most generously.
Ottavio.
And so do you.
Antonio.
I've felt your kindness deeply from the first.
Ottavio.
Then you would make me happy, if it lay
Within your power to do so?
Antonio.
Certainly!
But you, my gracious lord, are fortune's child,
And how can one so poor as I am make you happy?
Ottavio.
Ah, all's not gold that glitters, good Antonio,—
I am not happy! no, in sooth I am not!
Antonio.
My heart is sad for you. Can this be so,
My good, kind lord? And yet all, all is yours,
That any child of clay could wish to have!
Ottavio.
Ay, all indeed, but not the chiefest bliss.
Antonio.
The chiefest bliss? That every man, methinks,
May have, if he desire.
Ottavio.
What do you call
The chief, Antonio?
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Confidence in God,
A spotless heart, and an untroubled conscience.
Ottavio.
Oh, yes! No doubt, no doubt! That is the chief,
Yes,—for eternity. But man lives here
In time, and here must taste some bliss supreme,
Else never say that he is truly happy.
Antonio.
That is most true.
Ottavio.
The revelation, friend,
Of the divine on this dim spot of earth
Is that which we call Love. Now, commonly
It is developed in that noble form,
Which we style art and genius; or not less,
Though more contracted and condensed, when vow'd
To one especial object, and that one
The loveliest in the world, a charming woman.
Antonio.
And oh, what artist ever liv'd on earth,
Who did not strive to couple both these loves
In bonds inseparable?
Ottavio.
But still the Muse
Holds sovereign sway in every artist's heart.
Antonio.
Most true, for the beloved one is his Muse!
Ottavio.
And this same Muse doth change with every moon.
The Muses number, at the lowest count,
Nine lovely, fascinating maids, you know.
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Yet every Muse bestows her special art,
And every artist loves his special Muse.
Ottavio.
The mighty Raphael, to whom you stoop'd
Your head but now, had several, methinks.
Antonio.
Poor Raphael! Because he had not one.
Ottavio.
How, Raphael no Muse?
Antonio.
Oh yes, in heaven,
In his desire, his aspiration, what
By him was his Divine Idea called.
Now he has found her surely, and his soul
No more, like his inspired Cecilia, need
Bend her pure eyes upon the distant blue
In search of a contentment, full, divine.
Now he enjoys and clasps her to his breast.
He sought her here in vain, poor Raphael!
And therefore flung his starved and thirsty soul
Into the sea of sense, and drank oblivion.
Ottavio.
Are you more happy, then?
Antonio.
Heaven knows, I am!
Unhappy Raphael! what avail'd it thee,
Thou wert so fair and blooming? What avail'd
Thy potent friends, the Pope, and Rome's acclaim?
What gain to thee the charming Fornarina?
Or what the Cardinal's uncomely niece?
97
A gentle, virtuous, true-hearted wife!
No fond Maria rested on thy heart,
And having that, how richer far am I
In my poor hut, than thou with all thy fame?
Ottavio.
Then you are satisfied, Maria loves you
With all her heart?
Antonio.
Of that I am as sure,
As that I live.
Ottavio.
'Tis well! When I say well,
I only mean for you, not well for me.
So fare you well, I will not mar your peace.
(Antonio starts.)
I thought you loved your Muse, and her alone;
And that your wife in woman's fashion loved
Herself, and next herself, whatever pleased
Her senses and her whims. 'Twas therefore I
Invited you to live with me in Parma;
My object was to gratify all three.
But now I see my plan will never work.
You and your wife are both romantic. Well,
Dream, or reality, it matters not,
Whatever makes us happy must be real.
So God commend you to his grace, Antonio!
Stay here you cannot. You would find it hard,
Now, after what has passed. But do not fear!
I will not steal beneath the cloud of night,
A fox into your dovecote. Though I'm fond
Of doves, I need not get at them by stealth;
It suits me better far to purchase them
In the broad noonday on the market-place.
Then fare you well! Salute your lovely wife!
By heaven! I purposed fairly by us all.
98
In this affair, why, then, that one am I.
Adieu, sir! You shall paint me many more
Such pictures as the present. Meanwhile rest,
And look around you to your heart's content.
Battista shall the eighty scudi bring.
[Exit.
Antonio
(alone).
This was his purpose? This his boasted love
For art? This the respect he felt for artists?
The patronage? Esteem? Fool that I am!
Mock'd here again by a mere phantom light!
I am avenged; he went away ashamed.
Ashamed? Avenged? I? Am not I the culprit,
A gentle sheep, submissive unto wrong?
No, he shall fight with me; I'll not endure
The infamy; what though he be a lord,
A piece of noble clay, so stamp'd by chance,
I bear a noble soul, mark'd out by God,
And in the book of ages I shall live,
When he lies mouldering in forgotten dust.
I'll be avenged! The sword shall do me right.
A murderer? Rather bear my wrong in peace!
And should I fall—Maria, my Giovanni,
And thou, loved art! Pshaw! this excitement is
A thing to smile at. Men of war may fight!
With them a froward temper, and contempt
For death and danger, is their simple duty.
They have nought else to do,—it is their glory!
The artist works by spirit, and his rank
Is therefore with the ministers of peace.
God did not place a sword within his hand.
The enchanter's wand, which conjures spirits, can
Create life, but is impotent to kill.
I will endure my wrong, as the great type
Of all good men below endured his shame.
For he that on this wilderness of earth
Seeks to achieve the lofty and the noble,
Must ever stoop to bear the martyr's cross;
'Tis only after death his life begins.
For art? This the respect he felt for artists?
The patronage? Esteem? Fool that I am!
Mock'd here again by a mere phantom light!
I am avenged; he went away ashamed.
Ashamed? Avenged? I? Am not I the culprit,
A gentle sheep, submissive unto wrong?
No, he shall fight with me; I'll not endure
The infamy; what though he be a lord,
A piece of noble clay, so stamp'd by chance,
I bear a noble soul, mark'd out by God,
And in the book of ages I shall live,
When he lies mouldering in forgotten dust.
I'll be avenged! The sword shall do me right.
A murderer? Rather bear my wrong in peace!
And should I fall—Maria, my Giovanni,
And thou, loved art! Pshaw! this excitement is
A thing to smile at. Men of war may fight!
With them a froward temper, and contempt
For death and danger, is their simple duty.
They have nought else to do,—it is their glory!
The artist works by spirit, and his rank
Is therefore with the ministers of peace.
God did not place a sword within his hand.
The enchanter's wand, which conjures spirits, can
Create life, but is impotent to kill.
I will endure my wrong, as the great type
Of all good men below endured his shame.
For he that on this wilderness of earth
Seeks to achieve the lofty and the noble,
99
'Tis only after death his life begins.
Look round me now? Contemplate now the pictures?
How can I? Oh the things that I have known,
In this brief day; hope, insolence, despair,
Supreme delight,—this journey, heat, fatigue!
I'm very weary, and mine eyelids droop.
Here let me rest awhile, to gather strength
For the long tiresome journey home again.
How can I? Oh the things that I have known,
In this brief day; hope, insolence, despair,
Supreme delight,—this journey, heat, fatigue!
I'm very weary, and mine eyelids droop.
Here let me rest awhile, to gather strength
For the long tiresome journey home again.
(Sits down on a chair, and falls asleep.)
Enter Ricordano with his daughter Celestina, the latter carrying a wreath of laurel in her hand.
Ricordano.
So here we are, my child.
Celestina.
Merely as guests.
Is it not so?
Ricordano.
Yes, wayward Celestina,
Because you wish it so.
Celestina.
Nay, you, dear father!
Ricordano.
I wish your happiness, Heaven knows I do!
You think you will not find it with Ottavio.
So be it, then! I will forego my plans.
On his own flippant folly lie the blame,
Rash, thoughtless youth! Yet this I will uphold,
His heart is good.
Celestina.
His heart? Has he a heart?
Ricordano.
You women think that heart is all in all.
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So speaks the man, that has himself the largest.
Ricordano.
Oh flatterer!
Celestina.
Ottavio has none;
Trust me, dear father, none. He is not wicked;
But he is selfish, dissolute, and proud.
He loves me not, I love not him; and yet,
Dear father, can you wish—
Ricordano.
Well, be it so!
I will forego the promise that I made
My friend Lorenzo on his dying bed,
By intermarriage of my child with his,
To bind our families in closer ties.
I acted hastily; may God forgive me!
Celestina.
Father, there will be joy in heaven, that thus
You made not shipwreck of your daughter's peace.
Ricordano.
By heavens, when I bethink me, were it not
A sin, dear girl, to force so sweet a bud
As thou—there is no vanity in this;
I am thy father, but thy heart, thy beauty,
God gave to thee, not I—to force so sweet
A bud into a hard and arid soil;
This too, when every youthful gardener
Within the Paradise, that circles Florence,
Yearns with full soul to make that blossom his?
Celestina.
Dear father, if I be a little flower,
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And I will nestle closely to thy heart.
Ricordano.
And stirs no love yet in thy bosom, child?
Celestina.
For God, for thee, for all that's good and fair!
Ricordano.
But for no suitor?
Celestina.
No.
Ricordano.
My pretty one!
Not yet? Well, it will come, girl. Oh, believe me,
Boy Cupid will have vengeance, howsoe'er
He seem to bear your scorn contentedly.
When you surmise it least, lo, all at once
He'll stand before you, dreadful as a Silvio,
And change thee to a languishing Dorinda.
Celestina.
Father, I'll be prepared.
Ricordano.
My little Muse!
Such I perforce must call you. Cold as ice,
You scorn the passion of the sons of earth,
And live in nature and in art alone.
For whom do you intend this laurel wreath?
Celestina.
How should I know, dear father? As we cross'd
The palace garden, from the bush a bough
Bent down, and got entangled in my hair.
To punish it, I tore it from the stem,
And straightway in my hand it grew a wreath.
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Beyond all doubt, to crown thy Raphael!
There hangs the picture.
Celestina.
Ah, a glorious room!
Ricordano.
And yet you would forsake this lovely shrine.
Celestina.
Ah, yes!
Ricordano.
It might be yours.
Celestina.
Dear father, say,
Couldst thou not buy these glorious gems of art
From Lord Ottavio?
Ricordano.
Nay, child, dost thou know
The worth of a collection such as this?
Celestina.
No, for 'tis priceless; yet Ottavio, he
Will not demur; for he loves money more
Than pictures. He'll demand no higher price,
Than you would rate your daughter at, I'm sure.
You'll be a gainer by the business, then.
You only give him gold, and keep your child.
Ricordano.
You little, witching Circe, you! Stay here!
Enjoy yourself among your favourites,
Whilst I go in and seek Ottavio.
I'll tell him my opinion, your resolve.
He must make up his mind to bear it.
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Oh,
For such a courtly man, that will be easy;
Trust me, the sacrifice won't cost him much.
Ricordano.
You will not be his wife, but you remain,
As his relation, still a friend,—a sister.
Celestina.
Assuredly; and as a friend and sister,
I will come many a time, as now, to pay
My duty to Ottavio and—the pictures.
Ricordano.
You saucy girl!
Celestina.
Say, I shall follow soon.
Ricordano.
Poor fellow, can you look him in the face,
Upon the back of your refusal?
Celestina.
Nay,
The whole thing is a jest, and nothing more.
Yet I must try to hide the thorn with flowers.
Ricordano.
Go to, you are a wilful, wayward girl!
(Exit.)
Celestina
(alone).
Once more I am amidst my darling pictures!
Treasures of art, and shall I leave you, thus?
Must all your beauties here be left to fade,
In dust, unloved, among barbarians,
With none of nobler soul to feel your worth?
104
Lay down my laurel-garland at thy feet.
What have we here? A picture? A new picture,
Its face turn'd to the wall. Is't possible?
Ottavio purchase pictures? Well, 'tis sure
To be a gem! (turns the picture round.)
How! Do I dream? No, no!
This picture's by Antonio Allegri,
The great, and, until now, unnoticed painter,
After whose works I've copied many heads,
Of whom we heard so much from Buonarotti
And Julio Romano, when they met us
Upon the road this morning. Angelo
Made him a present of his ring at parting,
And will make interest for him with the duke.
(Looks at the picture.)
How exquisite is this, how full of life!
The mother of our Lord! Oh, what a face,
All reverence, meekness, and sweet holy calm!
The Saviour beams in gentle majesty,
Giovanni—oh, upon my breast I long
To take the boy, and kiss him o'er and o'er!
Heavens! what a perfect darling is the child!
Nature assuredly supplied the type;
Invention never fashion'd aught so fair.
Oh, exquisite! What sentiment, what colour!
(After standing for a while wrapt in contemplation, she continues—)
This picture I must crown. I now can see
Why the bough droop'd and check'd me as I pass'd.
It was a sweet presentiment of what
I now behold. Ah, if I could but crown
The artist so, unseen, even by himself.
Well, I will crown him in his picture here.
(As she is about to place the wreath upon the picture, she perceives Antonio asleep.)
Jesu Maria shield me, who is here!
(Starts back, but immediately recovers herself.)
105
How has he come into the room?
(Approaches him cautiously.)
He's not
A man of rank, nor even a citizen,
Still less a serving man. His dress is plain,
Loosely put on, but very clean, though poor;
A handsome head, but pale! What noble features!
How high the forehead! Gracious powers, what's this?
Yes, he has Buonarotti's signet ring
Upon his finger! All good saints, it is,
It is Antonio Allegri's self!
No doubt, he brought the picture here himself,
And, wearied with the walk, has fallen asleep.
(She regards him with the greatest sympathy, and when she sees that he is fast asleep, drops on her knee before him, the better to examine his features.)
Ah me, how sad, yet noble, is his look!
He seems as he had borne no common share
Of this world's shocks, and yet he is not old.
Ah no, thou gifted being!
(Rises up, and says, in a low and timid voice,)
Dare I crown him!
Oh, no; great heavens! if he should chance to wake!
If any one should come! No, I will hang
The wreath here on the picture, so when he
Awakes, he'll see that he is prized!
(Hangs the wreath upon the picture, and steps back.)
So, so!—
Yet, no that will not do. It looks so cold,
Cold, and unmeaning! There the living man
Sits with bare head, while on the hard, dead wood
A chaplet hangs. Courage! I must be bold.
Oh, all good saints, be helpful to me now,
And let me happily achieve my venture!
(Places the wreath gently upon his head, then glides softly back.)
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The chaplet now is in its proper place.
It blends so finely with his dusky hair.
How grandly arches his brow under it!
Yes, that will do! Thank heaven, he did not stir,
And now, farewell, ere long we'll meet again.
He moves, breathes heavily.—Away, away!
(Exit.)
Antonio
(starts up, awakening from a dream).
Where am I? This cool, dim-lit gallery
Is not Elysium! (Reflects.)
Ah, heaven! I've been
Asleep, and dreamt. No, it was more than dream;
'Twas a presentiment of bliss to come!
I wandered 'mong the meadows of the blest,
That seem'd more fair than Dante pictured them,
And found myself within the Muses' grove;
Full in my view I saw their temple rise,
Built of white marble, high and gloriously,
With granite columns, and fair statues deck'd,
And fill'd within with pictures and with books.
Around me, on the grass, there lay reclined
The greatest artists, modern and of old,
Sculptors and poets, painters, architects.
Perch'd like a pigmy fly upon a man,
The mighty Phidias on the shoulder sat
Of a huge block, that seem'd like Hercules.
The splinters thick before his chisel flew;
And firmly in his soul he grasp'd the while
All the proportions of the Titan frame.
Apelles, with a smile, his pencil dipp'd
In morn's red dawn, and painted wondrous shapes
On clouds, that were by angels borne away.
There on his organ Palestrina play'd;
The organ pipes went through the universe,
And the four winds inspired the sounding air,
Whilst at his side Cecilia stood and sang.
Hard by the sacred fount old Homer sat,
107
Then the great Raphael, lovely as in life,
Into the circle led me by the hand,
And on his shoulders quivered silver wings;
Whereon the Muse stepp'd forth—oh, shall I e'er
Forget that form of matchless loveliness,
Pure as the dew of early dawn, and bright,
And fresh, and radiant, as the new blown rose?—
And with her snow-white hand upon my brow
She placed the dusky laurel wreath, and said,
‘Thee I devote to Immortality!’
On this I woke. Yet is it with me still,
As though I felt the chaplet on my hair.
(Raises his hand to his head, and feels the wreath.)
Great heaven! what do I see? Can this be so?
Are not the days of miracles gone by?
(Enter Battista with Nicolo, who carries a bag of money).
My friend Battista, who, who has been here?
Battista.
How should I know? See, here's the money you
Were promised by his lordship for your picture.
In copper you must take the sum. In that
The peasant pays the noble what he owes.
'Twill bend your back a little bit, no doubt,
But you've been used to burdens many a day.
Though you're a prodigy of painters now,
You'll not forget your father was a porter.
The weight upon your back will serve, methinks,
As a remembrancer of whence you sprung.
'Tis good to have such little jogs at times.
They help to keep down pride and self-conceit.
Antonio.
Can you not give me silver, friend Battista,
As much as will suffice my present needs?
The rest can wait. Look you, the road is long,
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Yet you would have me bear this load to boot.
Do me this favour, friend!
Battista.
Pshaw! friend indeed!
You are my foe.
Antonio.
What have I done to you?
Battista.
The insult and the shame, which I to-day
Endured from Michael Angelo, I owe
To you and only you; now 'tis my turn,
And I'll take care to pay you off in kind.
Antonio.
How will you compass that?
Battista.
There is the money!
I've taken off what you were in my debt.
So get you gone, and never venture more
To set your foot within the palace gate.
Antonio.
What means this burst of rage?
Battista.
They give you money,
Rings of great price, and laurel wreaths, I see.
Well, my fine gentleman, you shall receive
A gift from me as well.
Antonio.
Constrain your wrath!
109
I'm more disposed to cool it.
Antonio.
Well, sir, do
What you can justify to Heaven. I fear not
I have, what you at little seem to rate,
A stainless conscience. Should you do me wrong,
He that guides all will turn it to my good.
Farewell! I bear no hatred in my breast.
The bag, the burden cannot cramp my mind.
(Places the wreath of laurel on his head, and lifts the bag upon his shoulders.)
In the sweat of thy face thou, man, through all thy days
Thy bread shalt eat, such was the Lord's decree.
Though the load weigh my body down to earth,
The blessed laurel-wreath shall lift my head;
Lightly I take the road, and strong of heart.
[Exit.
Battista.
The bag is no light weight—eh, Nicolo?
Nicolo.
It is a deal of money.
Battista.
Seventy scudi!
But what, friend, is the money to the ring
He wears upon his finger? That is priceless.
What is't o'clock?
Nicolo.
We have a good hour yet,
If I mistake not, to the Ave Mary.
Battista.
Then sinks the sun, and all will soon be dark.
110
But the wood's shady, cool; it won't take long
To cross. Well, what I meant to say was this:
You ask'd me, Nicolo, to-day, for leave
To visit your old mother, did you not?
All day we've had a host of things to do,
But now there's nothing to prevent your going.
Be off at once! But by to-morrow, noon,
Be sure you're back again.
Nicolo.
A thousand thanks!
[Exit.
Battista
He's gone! Oh, rare! If that indeed thou be
A robber, an assassin, prove it now!
(stands musing for a moment.)
I dropp'd no hint; I bargain'd for no terms;
He goes to see his mother! To permit
A son to pay his duty to his mother,
Is a most Christian act. My conscience is
Clear and unspotted. Should Allegri fall,
Why, 'tis God's chastisement, not my revenge.
I wash my hands, for I am innocent.
END OF ACT FOURTH.
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